Bounty Hunter
by Rustito
Summary: Join Fang the Sniper and his tenacious rivals as the hunter becomes the hunted in an adventure where the only things that matter in life are money, how fast your shootin' hand is, and your well-being--in that order.
1. The Hunter

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

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**--Chapter One – The Hunter--**

_It's rather humorous, really._

_I'm flat broke. I haven't eaten for at most two-and-a-half days. I need to relieve myself. I'll bet some deadbeat wannabe has followed my trail to try and take what's mine again. I have a headache and I think I'm getting a sore throat. The Queen is almost out of fuel. I've got a mosquito bite on my arm that's making me consider cutting it off. And this idiot won't come out from behind that damn bush._

_Oh, and it's raining too._

_I guess it isn't very funny at all, actually._

His leather-gloved, four-fingered hand moved up and rotated a screw on the rifle's scope, zooming in further on the bush.

_Hurry up, damn it. I've got better things to do than sit here and wait for a no-class redneck with a horrible nickname._

Nothing stirred. The heavy rain fell across the brim of his hat, sending a waterfall across the portion of his face that wasn't sticking itself into the scope.

He had been situated there on the ground for at least fifteen minutes, with the small sniper rifle up to shoulder level, pointing its deadly tip downwards towards the random assortment of shrubbery where the target was. Having been tracking the target for what felt like a month but had actually been a few days, frustration began to peek out of its very compressed shelter inside him, and he felt his blood begin to boil. _How long does it take for a guy to use a bush?_

Behind him, the _Marvelous Queen _sat patiently, as though waiting for him to finish up with his business so it could take to the skies where it belonged. He had had to park the sleek, motorcycle-remniscent airbike a good ways back as to not let the target realize he was being followed, so he knew he couldn't miss when he would have to take the shot. If he did somehow get a case of quirky hands and the shot went wild, he'd have to run as to not lose the target.

And he was not a good runner.

The hard rain continued to pound against him, the bush, the _Queen, _everything. As he'd been lying on his stomach for the fifteen minutes he'd been there, his legs, feet, and part of his right arm that cradled the rifle's grip had all fallen asleep on him, but he wouldn't let a little thing like discomfort get this target away from him. At least he was alone – All he needed was for some jerkass to throw off his aim and blow things all out of the water for him. Fifteen thousand dollars down the toilet because of one mistake. Fifteen thousand dollars would be resting on one mistake's shoulders.

Swallowing, his grip on the end of the short rifle increased in tension, perhaps out of nervousness, but he had faith in his own abilities. He never missed. When he did miss, the shot hit some _other _vital organ. But this was just ridiculous. The target was on the other side of that bush, likely having the pleasure of relieving themselves, while he had to lay here on his belly, impatient, uncomfortable, and frustrated to no end. He could easily switch the rifle's firing mechanism to Auto and unleash a barrage of blasts at the stupid bush, but that would have been sloppy. He didn't do things sloppily. That was the work of an unprofessional, or an imbecilic newbie to the game. He wasn't unprofessional, nor was he new to the Hunt.

He sniffed quietly. It was likely the rain – He'd been laying there for a quarter of an hour, wearing nothing but his outback hat, his gloves, his gunbelt, and the leather, steel-calved boots that went up to his knees. The miserable weather was more or less the cause of his worsening sore throat, and now he was beginning to feel the early-stage effects of a common cold. For his part, he didn't care, though; he would bag the target before it got bad and began to affect his aim.

His black eye surveyed the bush through the scope further. This was taking too long. His hand again reached up and flicked a tiny switch on the scope's dark hull, activating the heat sensory technology instilled within it. It didn't help much, though – The bush was thick enough to the point where any sign of the target was lost amongst all the brush. Switching the scope back to its normal operation, he sighed slightly, sending a wash of icy mist into the atmosphere.

_Wanted alive – Hemorrhoid the Hippopotamus, on fourteen instances of lewd behavior, two instances of identity theft, four on credit card fraud, countless on forgery. With a name like Hemorrhoid, I think I'd steal somebody else's name, too. I guess his stupidity is worth fifteen thousand dollars, though. Strangely large number for a piece of garbage like that – I guess someone is really unhappy with this guy._

Smirking at the thought – and then squinting in disgust at the realization of why the target likely had the name – he loosened his right hand's grip from the rifle's handle slightly, stretching his right hand's fingers for at least a little added comfort; to try and get the blood flowing further. The very last thing he needed was for his finger to fall asleep as soon as the target walked into the open.

He allowed himself to glance up towards the sky to see if the weather would be letting up anytime soon – But thick, gray clouds covered the normally friendly blue hue, showers of rain draping over the horizon every which way he looked. That, coupled with the massive downpour occurring right over him, didn't help things in any way for him. What a miserable day to be out on the job, especially while chasing some worm like "Hemorrhoid the Hippo." Just the realization made him cringe.

_How did it come to this?_

The pitiful nature of chasing somebody like the fool just beyond his crosshairs didn't pass his notice. With people like Sonic the Hedgehog out there, clinging to a self-satisfying sense of justice, crime was reaching a disturbing low. It made his job that much harder. He'd never have otherwise resorted to going after someone like this, if things were still the way they should have been. He didn't necessarily condone crime, but it did technically pay the bills for him when it was high.

He enjoyed the Hunt, but lately, it could make him sick with disgust and shame. Now was one of those times.

He tilted his violet head slightly to make sure the safety was indeed off on the rifle – again out of concern and precaution. Better safe than sorry, but the hippo likely wasn't packing means of self-defense anyway. He himself wouldn't be in danger, but the target would. That much was certain. All the target would be able to do would be to simply try and bolt, but he had the sneaking suspicion that the hippo wasn't exactly level with Sonic the Hedgehog, in terms of running speed. That was okay – neither was he.

The shrubbery bristled.

Everything around him froze as his eye again dropped to the scope. His grip on the rifle tightened; his muscles iced.

Seconds passed.

Again, the bush rustled, and out from behind it waddled a plodding blue hippo with a red vest and boots who looked to be in a great deal of pain. The first noticeable thing was that he wasn't exactly large like he had expected, albeit being a fat one, but he sure looked annoyed with something. His face was scrunched, but despite the obvious pain he was going through, he was still moving, and away from the bush – away from the rifle.

The scope's crosshairs locked right onto the hippo's fat right leg. His finger slowly gripped the trigger, and just when the leg was stationary for a moment during the walk, the finger tensed.

The blast from the small, midnight blue sniper rifle was a loud one, but before the hippo could even hear it, a flash lit up the grassy, rocky scene amidst the powerful rain, and a single ion bolt shot right into the big leg like a bolt of lightning. Hemorrhoid gasped and nearly toppled. The shot had been taken with expert precision, and the ion blast had penetrated the leg cleanly despite all the fat the hippo was carrying in it like he was retaining water.

"Son of a f--" Before the hippopotamus could finish cursing, another shot sounded off into the storm, and with the force of a missile, the ion blast tore into his left foot, sending pieces of the red boot flying. The hippo shrieked at the added pain he bore, and like a big wad of dough, he began plodding forth at the highest rate of speed he could run at – Which wasn't very fast at all. Still, it meant trouble, but not for him.

_There he goes. _The crosshairs kept on the target as the hippo took off. That was enough damage – He'd slowed the big criminal down enough to the point where he could catch him. Too bad the guy was only wanted alive; shooting him dead would have made things much easier. In any case, he had a job to do. And he had to do it now.

Struggling up from the wet grass, rifle in hand, Fang the Sniper went hunting.

Making a quick leap off the small cliff-like rising he'd been situated on, the bounty hunter bolted on after the hippo, immediately feeling his own dose of pain course throughout his legs amidst the steel-calved brace-boots he wore. Ignoring the problems, he blasted forth to catch up with the plodding crook – who, at the moment, was doing a substantial job of keeping the distance. Fang's eyes sharpened, and he raised the rifle as he ran. "_GET DOWN!_"

The target didn't slow in the least.

_Figures__, _Fang thought. They always had to make things harder. Slowing to make sure his aim was true, he pulled the trigger again, the shot sounding off into the rain loudly.

The ion bolt smashed into the grass next to the target's feet. Startled, the hippo again shrieked and jumped awkwardly as he ran, but this tactic of Fang's didn't hold up the big guy very much. _Frickin' hell._

The hippo sought to put more distance on the tenacious bounty hunter by racing around a small, rocky bend, but it didn't work out very well. Fang tore around the little corner like some Olympic runner on record sprint. He was gaining, and fast.

The chase raced on into a more confined section of the zone. Hemorrhoid lumbered around a set of oaks, through more of that shrubbery he loved to use so much, across weak streams of water present from the rainfall. Fang kept on persistently, frequently racing through second-hand shortcuts to try and keep the distance between the two of them from closing up. What annoyed him was that Hemorrhoid the Hippopotamus should have been a disturbingly easy catch – But Fang bargained with himself that nothing in life came easy, especially in his case.

Still, he was frustrated with the big tub of lard for even considering running. The target would never get away from this bounty hunter, and that should have been plainly obvious.

The hippo kept onwards through the rainy, foresty patch of the area. Across a larger stream he burrowed, struggling through the water while panting heavily. Fang was there in seconds, and without hesitation, the bounty hunter raised the small rifle again, this time pointing the deadly mechanism directly towards the criminal's big, obvious head. "I said, _stop!_"

It wouldn't work. The hippo still wouldn't stop his tread through the water, but he did seem to acknowledge Fang's ever-close presence. This much was obvious by the way his fat hand reached into his vest and fished out a compact, rock-sized contraption.

_Goddamnit, he's packing--_

The grenade flew through the air in a wide arc, and the hippo was already on the move to get further across the river. As much as Fang would have enjoyed killing the bastard on the spot for even trying to put up a fight, he wouldn't get any money if the guy was dead. How immovably frustrating, but at the moment, he had more important things to worry about.

He hopped slightly into the air and shifted his weight to the side as hard as he could. Onto the ground his lengthy, prehensile tail landed, and it sent the bounty hunter flipping off to the right in one quick motion. The grenade exploded less than a second after he'd taken off, sending trees, rocks, and dirt flying in every possible direction, coupled with an enormous boom and shockwave that blasted the victims even further. It was the shockwave that did the most damage to Fang, but all it did was knock his trajectory off-course. The bounty hunter landed on his shoulder, the grass not helping soften the impact much.

As he rose, it took all of his inner strength, but Fang somehow resisted the urge to blast the hippo's head off there and then. He started again to try and catch the clumsy oaf, but if he had any more of those damn things, it wouldn't be as easy as he'd first predicted. He wouldn't be caught off-guard again, though.

By now, the wanted crook was making his way past more oaks. Growing breathless, he checked over his shoulder, but there was no sign of the weasel-wolf pursuing him. Slowing, he came to a stop near a tree and hid behind it, trying to catch his breath as he panted over and over. He hadn't run like this in ages – if ever. Why in the world was he being chased? Were the police after him? Was it the government? Or perhaps the weasel was a GUN agent, intent on capturing him and using him as a lab experiment. Such a thought made him quiver, and for a moment, he felt a little more on edge. But he could slow the persistent little bugger down some.

An audible snap coursed through his ears. The hippo's eyes raced to the side, stifling a gasp, and he tried to focus on where the sound had come from as he struggled to control his breathing.

Fang knelt low to the muddy, wet ground, a shadow in the rain and the blue mist it brought about. Goddamn branch--couldn't take a step around here without walking on one of them and waking up all of Creation. Recreational hunting in this place must have been hell. He held the rifle up and put his eye into the scope, scanning the distance as he activated the heat sensory mechanism once again.

Despite a few signals, likely coming from random wildlife, there was no big, obvious bulge of heat that he could see. The predator in Fang snarled vehemently, and he switched the mechanism off. He'd have to do this the hard way. Stepping forth, he slowly made his way further into the set of oak trees where the target had blubbered into, his boots digging into the soft, slushy mud as he moved quietly. He kept the rifle up at shoulder level, keeping its tip pointed toward the ground while sauntering carefully through the oaks.

The hippopotamus took a deep breath and peeked out from behind his hiding place – and there was the bounty hunter, creeping towards his position slowly, his black eyes darting every which way, seeking out his target. The hippo swallowed – an exceptionally difficult task to perform easily at the moment – and examined the damage he'd taken. The blast that had cut into his leg was creating a sickening amount of pain. It had likely struck the bone, but he could deal with the foot injury. However, both were making it pointedly difficult to keep on running like he was. Neither wound seemed to be bleeding, though, so that was a plus. He wasn't exactly sure of why that was the case, but it worked out in his favor. Or did it? In addition to the obvious pain, both wounds also felt as though they were burning with every small movement, causing him to squint in agony.

His fat hand reached up into his vest, and he gripped another of the three grenades he carried with him at all times. The police had been after him before, but not like this. In any case, he carried them along to deter any pursuers – but this fellow chasing him, the small, three-foot violet wolf, or coyote, whatever the chaser happened to be, he'd already survived one grenade blast. Humph – No one could survive two. No one. The hippo would make sure of it.

The soft slush of a boot into mud was audible now. Hemorrhoid took another deep breath, and pulled the grenade's pin. He hurriedly thrust it behind him, into the rain behind the oak tree, making sure to toss it far enough so it wouldn't be of much harm to him and the oak he hid behind. Immediately after doing so, the clear sound of multiple, frenzied slushes was heard, and he couldn't help but give a quaint little smirk about himself.

With a ferocious boom, the grenade took out more oaks, sending bark and mud everywhere, effectively dosing the patch of forest in brittle. Now was the time for him to get out of here, and he wouldn't let himself look over his shoulder this time. Hemorrhoid took off from behind the tree, waddling forward into the drizzle.

Narrowing his eyes, Fang glared down at the crater the grenade had formed upon detonation from his position on a thick tree branch. The target was _really _asking for it, and the bounty hunter was growing enormously irritated with the damned hippo moron for his actions. He'd have to make sure he really beat some sense into the guy when he caught him – and by God, he _was _going to catch him. Now that the hippo had made two attempts on his life, Fang wouldn't let the crook get away. Never. Granted, he wouldn't have done so in the first place, but now it was a very concious thought.

His head shot up towards the sound of someone running through mud. Gripping the rifle harder, Fang leapt from the tree branch and continued on after the criminal, his determination rising rapidly.

Hemorrhoid sped through more hordes of shrubbery to try and disorient his pursuer, but as he turned one quick bend, he suddenly felt very woozy and disoriented. Slowing, the crook's face scrunched as the pain started to really get on his belly thanks to all the running he was doing, but before he could start grumbling to himself, he turned slightly and spotted the violet weasel-wolf bounty hunter racing up towards him.

Now he was mad. Damned if he didn't show that little peon a thing or two. Words never worked as well as big explodey blasts anyway. Angered to the point of pure, blood-thirsty murder, the hippopotamus again reached into his vest and pulled out his final grenade, and with a quick second to pull its pin and aim, he tossed it forth, right into Fang's path. The hippo immediately stepped backwards to distance himself from the blast radius. This would take care of the pursuer quite well.

And a moment later, it blew. He grinned. Three times equaled a charm.

Out of the rain flew the violet-furred bounty hunter, shooting right up and over the explosion. Fang had again launched himself off his tail only a hair of a second before the grenade had gone off, and now he was dropping right towards the crook.

The hippo's eyes widened. He turned to try and start off again, but before he could even put a foot forward, something slammed into his back with the force of a freight train. He was sent flying forth, and he landed on his face. "Oof!"

He weakly started to turn himself around on the ground for comfort, but there was Fang. Already, the weasel-wolf crossbreed was racing right up to greet him. The hippo frowned, despite his blatant, obvious fear of the very persistent, very armed, and very angry bounty hunter. "Who the hell are—"

Fang kicked him right in his big, blue face with his heavy boot's heel. "Shut up and get on your belly!"

"_Ungh--!_" All the hippo could do was turn over, his eyes the size of dinner plates. "Who ARE you!? Are you with the police!?"

Reaching onto his belt as he pointed the rifle skywards with one hand, the bounty hunter whipped out a high-tensile fiber cord. "Be quiet before I spring a leak in your head. Put your hands behind your back."

"You _are_ the police!"

Fang smashed his heel directly into Hemorrhoid's spine. "GODDAMNIT, _PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK!_"

An agonized hippopotamus quickly obeyed. "What are you gonna do with me!?"

"You're spending the night with Bubba," Fang responded irritably, trying the hippo's hands together with the cord.

"Jail--I can't go to jail! You can't—"

"Last warning," Fang interrupted, shooting a look of hate at his captured prey through the storm, "if you don't shut up, I will _end _you."

The criminal lay there, frozen. He uttered not another word.

It would take some time and effort, but Fang eventually brought the hippo back to where the _Marvelous Queen _sat patiently. The airbike was still getting drenched, and the rain wasn't letting up at all. But jst being in the rain wouldn't exactly hurt it. Such an aspect was literally required in his line of work. Too bad it wasn't big enough to accommodate two people. A one-seater, the _Queen _was made for speed and reliability, and wasn't a machine that he'd use as, say, a moving van. Granted, he could have used a moving van for the hippo he was dragging along now.

Fang shoved Hemorrhoid over towards a grass-covered boulder, and he moved away from it a bit towards the sitting _Queen. _He switched his rifle's safety off and tucked it into a self-made holster near the airbike's leather seat; a holster he'd installed personally along with an assortment of accessories for ease of use. The hippo collapsed onto his rump and winced upon doing so. Fang rolled his eyes.

"Let me go," pleaded the hippo, an impossibly pathetic look on his face.

Fang glowered at him, annoyed and insulted that such a plea would even be posed. "Why would I do that?"

"I have friends. Friends like me who shouldn't be toyed with."

"I'm supposed to let you go because of that?" Fang crossed his arms over his chest and looked thoroughly unimpressed. "You morons can never think of anything else with which to threaten me. You always have _friends. _They proliferate dread and despair. I get nervous and shake in my boots. It's getting tiresome."

"I'm serious. They wouldn't appreciate what you're doing to me. They could find you."

"They would sorely regret it," replied Fang in so simple a tone it stunned the hippo.

"You shouldn't stir the wrath of people like them! It could get you in more trouble than you can handle."

Fang didn't answer. He reviled the very notion of chit-chatting with inferior bounties, and he loathed chit-chat enough as it was.

"I'm not kidding!" The hippo's big, fat head shook back and forth. "Don't you know what happens to people who tangle with bad sorts? I work for these folks—It's part of my gig. I sell them information on these people I, uh... well, you know. You have no idea what they're like! They'll come for you and give you what you've got coming."

"Maybe if I were already dead by the time they showed up, they'd have a chance," said Fang, growing irritated. "Your alleged companions are worth no more of my focus than a fly on the wall."

The hippo's expression grew even more pitiful. "But, but—don't you have enough enemies as it is? You're a bounty hunter, right? All you bounty hunters have enemies. These people—they kill men like you. They don't even blink while doing it."

"You don't even know who I am." Fang's gaze rested on his quarry, scorn alive in his eyes. "You are the most singularly pathetic creature I've ever had the misfortune of being in contact with. I've hunted things far greater and deadlier than you and your so-called friends. Not once will you or any of them, should they even exist, pose a significant threat to me, besides degrading the quality of my life."

Severely humiliated, the hippo's eyes sank. "You must be that... that... Nack the Weasel?"

Fang's eyes narrowed into slits. The hippo didn't fail to notice, and he swallowed audibly.

"Fang the Sniper. I'm not very surprised you haven't heard that name often. Only _real _criminals have."

"But... why are you after me? What am I even worth?"

"Surprisingly, you're a relatively high-value target at fifteen thousand dollars. I strongly prefer high-value targets to low-value, which is where your fat ass belong, but by some random act of God, here we are. Maybe when fools like Sonic the Hedgehog quit taking the law into their own hands, I'll start getting some better work, but for now, you and I will conduct a business transaction with the police. Now quit talking to me, because it's making me sick. Let's get moving."

"Oh, God—" The hippo's head shook again. "I can't go to jail. Not—no, please. Please, please, please—"

"Stop that. It's annoying. You're going to jail like all bad little fugitives eventually do when I find them. You should have considered the consequences before breaking the law like an idiot."

"But—but—w-w_ait! _I, uh," a hopeful look came alive in the hippo's eyes, "I have money!"

His suspicions aroused, the anger in Fang's expression degenerated a tad, and he cocked his head a bit to the side.

"And it's more than fifteen grand. I've built it up through my career. Let me go, and you can have it all."

"Your career as a petty fraud?"

"Well," the hippo fidgeted, "yes."

"You're trying to buy me out with other people's money." Fang's expression was the closest a living thing could have to that of a demon's.

"Well, uh," now he was _really _fidgeting, "yes."

"Exactly how much," said Fang slowly, eliciting the exact reaction he wanted from the hippo before tacking on, "do you value your life?"

The hippo's look of hope slid from his face like an avalanche. There was no answer other than that.

"I can't be so easily swayed, you waste of skin. You might have gotten away with it, were I a lesser man with no appreciation of professionalism, like these other idiots who try to do my job and think they're any good at it. But you lucked out today."

The overweight hippopotamus whimpered quietly and stared at the grass beneath him. Fang glowered on, a feeling of hatred in him. He didn't like to bring hate into the equation when hunting his prey, but sometimes the quarry gave him no choice, with how it often conducted itself. Sometimes he would run into the kind of scum only seen in fiction—he'd see it for his own eyes, be right near it, feel the emptiness in its soul stretch a cold hand right into his. It was horrible sometimes, and he had only dealt with it simply because he'd successfully trained himself to do so.

"Do you know how pathetic you look right now?" Fang queried, in a tone as if he were asking for the time.

"I can't help it," whined the hippo, frustrated and embarrassed with his situation and treatment. "Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I never thought I'd get caught."

"Well, I just wanted you to know how much I _hate _you for bringing me down to such an undignified level. You're the sort of worthless bumpkin who commands the attention of dregs and drunkards who hunt for nickels and dimes, not the kind of money I usually bring in. So if you don't mind, I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible. Get your fat ass up."

The hippo just sat there. "You're horrible."

"No, _you're _horrible. _I, _on the other hand, am getting tired of having to talk to you." Resting his plated-gloved hands on the airbike's handlebars, the bounty hunter swung himself up onto the seat, gesturing to the hippo. "Let's go."

He didn't have to mention that if the hippo tried to run again, he wouldn't get far. But Hemorrhoid hesitated anyway, sending a vile look at the bounty hunter. Apparently, somewhere in his tiny mind, he'd decided that despite the bleak situation, opposing his captor would be a marvelous decision.

Fang didn't have anything to say in response to this. Instead, he reached down towards his gunbelt and pulled his .45 out of its brown leather holster, eventually pointing it towards the hippo.

That was enough. Hemorrhoid sighed and stepped towards the airbike.

A thought crossed his mind. "Where are we going?"

"Station Square," Fang replied blankly, rubbing his aching legs a bit with one hand. "Now stop talking or I'll bring new meaning to the term _dead weight._"

Hemorrhoid blinked. "But, that's gotta be ten miles from here!"

"I don't give a goddamn if it's on the moon. Start walking."

The hippo stood there a moment, sighed again, and started to walk forth. Behind him, the _Marvelous Queen _slowly rose into the air, its high-powered twin-engines sounding off as though to push Hemorrhoid onward. The rain continued to fall, strong as ever.

* * *

"Get me a cup of coffee, Bill."

Bill sighed. "Yes-sir."

Station Square's police department – the downtown precinct, anyway – was nestled right between the rowdiest show club in town and a parking garage. Not exactly the most glamorous location ever, but the city itself had little crime. If anything, Capital City and the world outside of Station Square was the real haven for the crooks inhabiting South Island. So it was that poor Officer Bill's daily duties had come down to kissing Sergeant Baker's ass and getting him the newspaper, coffee, men and women (the recruit kind), food, and the rest of the usual garbage he beckoned for.

At times Bill wished he could get out of this precinct and go off to get the crooks roaming around outside the city; to hunt them down like the bounty hunters he always heard about. That was the only way the department jails filled up anymore – From the work of the bounty hunters. Without them, the jails would go entirely unused, although they made a good home for Dirty Bob, the weird old drunk who enjoyed sleeping in the cells at times despite how no one ever really put him in there themselves.

Even though the department hadn't been of much use itself around town lately, the jails were still certainly getting their share of wealth. Jagged the Hyena, a loud, obnoxious, offensive-in-all-manners bounty hunter who carried an electro-rod and got a kick out of shocking babies with it, had come in just the other day with the Ed brothers, a trio of lizards – Ted, Ned, Jed – who each carried bounties on their faces the size of Capital City. With them around, along with the other crooks the Hunters had nabbed, the precinct was finally seeing some action, even if that action only really consisted of getting the prisoners food, toilet paper, newspapers, and whatnot. Why they didn't put Sergeant Baker in there too, Bill would never know.

"_Bill!_" Baker shouted from his office. "_Coffee!_"

Officer Bill began grinding his teeth. "YES, sir."

Josie, the precinct's attractive secretary and the only remotely-attractive girl in the whole place, suddenly looked up from her desk, eyeing the wide, double doors of the building.

The rest of the officers inside immediately came to attention and bombarded her with a horde of questions. "You okay Josie? What's wrong? Have a headache? You need an aspirin? Are you having a stroke? Want a massage? Foot rub?"

Secretary Josie couldn't even answer before the doors kicked open without warning. In flew Hemorrhoid the Hippo, hands still tied at his back with the cord and looking like he'd just picked a fight with Metal Sonic. He crashed onto the white tile floor in a heap, tears in his bulging eyes. "Help me! Someone please get—"

The fugitive's face ended up being shoved into the floor when Fang propped his boot up and rested it on the crook's head. "I trust this guy looks familiar."

Bill and the rest of the police staff were dead silent. All activity in the room had ground to an alarmingly sudden halt.

"Hungry hungry hippo here has had the pleasure of having his face posted all over the reward billings for numerous crimes, now including attempted murder on my behalf. The reward is fifteen thousand greens."

Silence. All eyes lay on the bounty hunter.

Officer Bill was the only one who could speak up, at first. "Is that really, uh... Hem-- the hippo?"

Fang's expression went black with aggravation. "Does it look like Dr. Eggman?"

"Well, er..."

"I found various forms of identification on him. Most weren't his. He had a driver's license in his name, and his picture. You can rest quite assured that I did my job right."

Bill just stared. The hippo's awful state didn't fail to reach his notice. An anxious feeling stirred inside him. "What, uh, what did he do? Kill somebody?"

"I'm sure you can find that out yourself. Who do I see for the reward?"

"You'll have to talk with Sergeant Baker about that." Officer Bill's eyes centered again on the hippo. He knew it wasn't wise to press the issue to the violent-looking individual standing before him. Bill didn't get paid enough for that. He juked a thumb toward one of the doors in the rear of the station. "He's in that office over there."

Fang didn't reply. He kicked Hemorrhoid right in his posterior, shoving the hippo further towards Officer Bill, and without uttering a single word further to any of them, he stepped away from the lot, still carrying the attention of the room. Ignoring them all, he headed up to Sergeant Baker's office door and flung it open without even so much as knocking first.

Sitting up in his chair, Sergeant Baker's old brown eyes widened slightly. "Who in the name of God are you? What the hell are you doing in here?"

_People ask too many questions these days, _the bounty hunter thought to himself. "Fang. You bozos like to call me Fang the Sniper."

The obese police sergeant blinked, scanning the man-hunter further. Barely three feet tall, Fang the Sniper was a fellow who was often looked upon as weak and meager to those who towered over him, but anyone who knew who he really was had something to fear in this half-weasel, half-wolf. Further noticeable was the .45 pistol situated in the gunbelt's holster the little fellow wore. The name _Fang _and the term _sharpshooter _were synonymous with one another. A deadeye if there ever was one, Fang the Sniper never missed, and was unreasonably quick on the draw as well. Sergeant Baker knew exactly who Fang was, and he knew what to fear – in a sense.

"You're not Fang the Sniper," Baker eventually stated after giving Fang a disturbingly long once-over. "You're Nack the Weasel."

Fang's fur bristled animatedly, and he clearly took the effort to keep from sighing. "Get your story straight."

"Get my story straight?" The dueling egos collided. "What—"

"Let's get this over with. I don't have time for this." The bounty hunter took off his outback hat and fiddled with the one side that was pinned up before shaking the entire thing slightly to remove it of some of the rain water. He was successful in this, and he was also successful in effectively drenching half of the paperwork on Baker's desk. "Hemorrhoid out there was worth fifteen thousand dollars to you and your army of yes-men. He's outside this office only because I had the nerve to degrade myself enough to go after a waste of existence like him. I'd like payment sometime this century."

Incredulous, Baker stared into Fang's black eyes. "Fifteen thousand dollars."

The bounty hunter reached around to his back and wretched out a sheet of water-drenched paper. Unfolding it halfway, he tossed it towards Baker, and as soon as it landed, it unfolded completely by itself -- A wanted poster, with Hemorrhoid's big, oh-so-beautiful face taking up the majority of it. Underneath the photo read the usual dribble about whether the target was wanted alive, dead, or (in some instances due to the department's astounding lack of brainpower) both, but what really stood out beyond the other aspects of the poster was the reward money. "Fifteen thousand dollars. Right there."

Baker took the poster in his and studied it intensely. "Wanted for fraud, identity theft, lewd behavior... Fifteen thousand dollars." The corners of his big mouth twitched. "I remember this! Hemorrhoid the Hippo! Oh, that poor bastard. How about that nickname?"

"Yes, ha ha, very funny." Fang failed to look at all amused.

"Ha, yes, well, ahem. Anyway. As for the bounty for him, it's kind of a strange story. This one was a special case."

One eyelid drooped on Fang's face. "Special case?"

"Yes, you see, the wanted poster says fifteen thousand, but in actuality, we're really only offering one thousand."

Fang stood there, entirely unsure of how to react to that statement.

"It's some bureaucratic nonsense, really. I think it's because this guy conned one of the captains out of their debt card account somehow, and the whole department just changed its procedures regarding this bounty. I don't really understand it myself."

There was no apparent reaction from Fang for a moment.

Then his eyelids narrowed, and his mouth sagged. "Very funny."

But big fat Baker's expression didn't change, and when Fang saw that, his eyes got bigger again. "You're joking, right?"

"I'm afraid not, Nacky. We're getting a little low on funds anyway."

Fang had never heard of anything like this happening before in his entire life. He could feel a hot, burning rage flooding through his entire body, but he somehow kept it in check. "How can you do that?"

Baker rocked in his seat and thought. "Well, you understand, crime is lower than it's been in the past, right? So, the department has been a little wayward with the way it hands out its checks. Too many promotions being dealt, and all that. Too many people taking paid vacations to Casino Night. Kind of obnoxious, since I got stuck with a lot of the paperwork. Now things are going down and we're having a hard time getting them back up. People losing their jobs, and so on."

"Sounds like you just got greedier than you could afford."

"Well, er, I suppose that's one way of looking at it. But we really are getting very low on money. The city hasn't increased our funding at all, too. We're working on ways to get it up again, but then you get all these bounty hunters running in here, collecting bounties... We just can't afford it like we used to. It's not looking good."

"So," Fang said, folding his arms, "what do you intend to do?"

"Well, we were thinking about proposing some money being transferred to us in taxes and from the fire depart—"

"About _me, _idiot."

Baker just sat there, staring. The complete lack of interest Fang had in the police department's affairs was clear as the sun in his eyes.

"I'm just trying to make you understand why we can't—"

"This is ridiculous. You expect me to hand over that tub of lard outside for a thousand dollars when that poster says he's worth more?"

"Well, actually, they probably already took him into custody. Let's see if I can figure out who you go to—"

"Are you trying to _insult _me, you _blimp?_" Fang interjected suddenly.

"What?" Baker actually jolted back as if he'd been struck.

"I'm the most dangerous man you've ever met, yet here you are, thinking you can stiff me out of fourteen thousand dollars. Are you on drugs?"

"_What!?_"

"Am I on candid camera? This has got to be a joke. Because I've never heard of anyone doing something so incredibly stupid before in my entire life. I've caught more people than _you've ever met, _you..." and Fang struggled for a moment to come up with something in his frustration, "_bloated pissant gonna-be-stuck-at-sergeant-forever asshole! _I'll bet the detectives come in here and crap in your desk every morning."

"You—" a flabbergasted Baker leaned forward, "you can't speak to me like that and get away with it! You little bastard, I should have you thrown out of here by every available officer—"

"You'll hand over that whole fifteen thousand if you know what's good for you!" Fang spat, jutting a finger right in the sarge's face.

"I just to—_YOU CAN'T THREATEN ME, _YOU LITTLE _BASTARD! _I'll post _your _goddamned face on a po—"

Fang wasn't interested in listening to the rest of Baker's spiel. In a flash, his hand dropped and whipped out the .45 pistol in one quick motion, and pointed its hollow tip level with Baker's face. The barrel centered on the small, confined space right between Baker's eyes, tightening the Sergeant's in the second he did so and, and the big man's chair groaned from his bulk leaning back in shock. Fang sneered.

"_**WHOAH, **__HEY, WHOAH!_" Baker sputtered. "What the hell are you doing!?"

"I didn't come here to dick around this much," Fang responded. "I'm not leaving this building without fifteen thousand dollars. And I don't need a check."

"You can't point that at me!" Baker was much quieter this time, though. "What's your malfunction, you rodent!?"

"Stop being a jackass to the guy with the gun, and give me my fifteen thousand dollars."

Baker sat there, shivering eyes darting from Fang to the door. "You-- but— I—"

_Chlick _went the pistol's hammer into the cocked position. "I'm not talking just to hear the wind blow. You give me my money _now._"

Baker's lower lip quivered, the shock still sweeping through his nerves.

His brow furrowing beneath the brim of his hat, the bounty hunter kept the handgun pointed right at the Sergeant, his expression darkening. Both he and Baker knew full well that shouting out for backup wasn't a tremendously excellent plan, since the copper wasn't the one with the gun. Such an action could very well destroy Fang's already-rocky relationship with the law in both Station Square and Capital City, but he enjoyed the gambling life. Besides, he wasn't the one at fault here – Not in his mind. "You have thirty seconds to pay up. If I don't have fifteen thousand dollars by the time I count down, I'll take payment straight out of your face."

"What!?" Baker shrieked.

Fang didn't respond.

"You can't do this! It'll put you on the bounty list yourself! You'll have to find another way to make a living, and even if you do, you'll be hunted, just like what you're doing with all those criminals you bring to justice! Think about what you're doing for a minute!"

"I have no qualms about killing a client who tries to cheat me, even if they are wearing a badge. Twenty seconds left."

Baker leaned forward, perspiration marking his features. "Have you gone mad?! We don't even have fifteen thousand dollars! It's just like I told you--crime has been so low in this town, and we're struggling to feed our prisoners, we barely have enough to pay our employees as it is these days! I swear it's true! Damn it, believe me! You've got to!"

"Ten seconds."

Baker stood up and commenced to royally _freak._ "YOU'VE GOTTO BELIEVE ME! I SWEAR TO **GOD**, IT'S THE TRUTH! WE DON'T HAVE FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS! WE **DON'T!** DON'T DO IT! WAIT! WAIT WAIT WAIT!"

Fang's eye twitched.

"Don't!" Baker again pleaded.

The bounty hunter stood there.

"Here, here," the Sergeant murmured, looking much like a race horse on cocaine. He slowly opened one of the drawer's on his desk – despite Fang's tensing at this action – and opened a locked box, eventually holding up an envelope, growing quiet with his next words. "It's all we've got. One thousand. I'm telling you the truth."

His expression souring, Fang again sneered angrily, lowering the gun agonizingly slowly. His other hand swept out and snatched the envelope from the Sergeant, glaring at him all the while.

"You remember my name," the bounty hunter uttered, so quietly that Baker had to struggle to hear him, "and the next time I bring one of these diseased little bastards in for you to baby-sit, I'll be expecting the full reward. You don't know how lucky you are thanks to my good graces."

With that, he turned and headed towards the door, tucking the envelope onto his gunbelt as he placed the gun back into its holster.

But as he opened the door, Fang turned to look at Sergeant Baker once more. "And I trust you know not to bring this up with anyone."

And he left, leaving Baker to stand there, still in shock.


	2. Into the Shadows

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Two – Into the Shadows--**

With the hideous rain still pounding Station Square, along with a good portion of South Island in the higher scope, the streets were bare, flooded. Almost entirely devoid of life, the miserable day was almost mistakable for that of a holiday to the point where it was a wonder if anyone even lived in the city anymore. The abysmal weather, however, did make it much easier for Fang to cruise along above the community at speed, seated in the _Marvelous Queen_. He had to be exceptionally careful with how much he throttled the accelerator, but since the airbike was essentially a miniature fighter jet, it could cruise along without utilizing major power for some time. The _Queen _was low on fuel, but he'd have enough to make it to his destination.

Through the downpours he sped, racing along above the dark, misty blue city. With nighttime approaching, coupled with the less-than-spectacular weather, he could perhaps have the opportunity to go out and get a drink somewhere after he rested up for a bit. Fang wasn't exactly on the right side of the law himself, so he preferred to keep his place of residence in an area where the police department wouldn't tread – Usually in the abandoned districts. He had numerous hideouts around South Island, though, but while he didn't have a particular favorite, his Station Square residence certainly seemed the nicest out of them, despite how he basically lived in an abandoned apartment building complex.

One thousand damn dollars had all he'd gotten for all the trouble he'd been put through thanks to that jerk-off Hemorrhoid the Hippo. Sergeant Baker and his little crew of donut-suckers had been the biggest help ever with their oh-so-generous contribution of the thousand clams. Now Fang could buy that pet rock he'd always wanted. And maybe starve in the process, too. It had to be one of the biggest crocks ever – A police department issuing a substantial reward for a bounty and then giving less than a tenth of their original offer. It was either full-blown illegal or outstandingly brilliant; Fang didn't care which. It pissed him off either way.

Sweeping down between a set of deteriorating buildings, he made a quick right around an empty corner, and up ahead stood the apartment complex. Old, brick-layered, and dilapidated, the small, abandoned complex served as the perfect get-away for a fellow in Fang's line of work when he wanted to be alone – And alone he was. The nearest speck of civilization was the still-active church, about a quarter mile down the road, and further along was where the real action commenced: The seedy, fly-filled bar – Dead-Drunk Dave's – a half mile from the apartment buildings, a pit hole that was more often than not either bustling or dead itself. It allowed Fang the necessary peace and loneliness he required when he wasn't on the job.

The _Marvelous Queen _slowly hovered closer to the grass amidst the rain. Fang thumbed a tiny black button on the dash, and a heavy steel garage door slowly began rising up in the side of the complex's main building. Keeping the engine output at the bare minimum, he cruised forward slowly and carefully maneuvered the airbike into the roomy place of storage, deactivating power to the craft entirely as soon as he was entirely inside. With another press of the button, the door closed behind him tightly with a sound rumble. Slipping himself off the craft, he began removing whatever equipment he'd brought with him, including the blue-finished rifle inside the holster near the seat.

It only took a few minutes, as he wasn't carrying much in the vehicle besides the rifle and some luggage in the small, compact compartment in its rear. Heading through a doorway that connected to the complex's main hallway, he dragged the equipment, along with his now-removed gunbelt, over into another room where he let it rest on an old decrepit table that had been in the building for as long as he could remember. Most of the furniture in the building was likely as old as he was. It had all been there when he'd first come across the place, so he had figured he might as well make good use of it. Some of the more termite-infested crap he'd needed to throw out, but that was understandable with such a setting, and everything could be replaced anyway, although the only thing he had actually been able to purchase as of that time with all the hunting he did was a vibrating recliner that no longer worked or even tilted back.

Shutting the door between the garage and the hallway, he stepped forward and headed into the building's office, which he had made out as his personal room. By now, after living there for so long, each of the rooms in the apartment complex had some purpose – The office was his own real living quarters, while one of the building's many bedrooms had been set up as a computer room. Another bedroom on the other side of the building had been made out to be the quaint little area where he kept and serviced his weaponry; to make sure the guns were clean and he had plenty of spare ammunition every time he entered. The list of random rooms went on, and their eventual furnishing gave Fang a sense of accomplishment, despite how he held no titles to the complex at all. Still, he paid for his phone, his electricity, and the building's water, and who really owned the place didn't seem to concern any company. It was unlikely anyone even owned it at all, considering the quality of the part of town it was in.

He slumped into the stupid broken recliner and thumbed a switch on the remote sitting nearby, causing the eight-inch television on the other side of the room to flicker with life. The old boring clock on the wall told him that it was nearing six o'clock in the evening. Fang tried to catch the news whenever possible, as it kept him up to date on wanted criminals and other notable occurrences that the media shouldn't have been sticking their big, fat noses into in the first place. It also frequently gave him some information on other bounty hunters. He'd been having a real problem with some of them lately – Always trying to bag his captures as their own when he wasn't paying attention, and he always was.

He'd come across quite a few rival bounty hunters in his time. There had been who knew how many who had tried to steal some of his thunder from ever since he'd started up to that very moment. One of the more recent notables happened to be Jagged the Hyena, a stupid, filthy, dirty, smelly asshat who had the temper of a tea kettle. While he and the guy had no real issues with one another, more often than not their confrontations ended in turmoil since dueling egos could never sit by and watch one another talk the talk and walk the walk. Now, thanks to a few secretive details he'd noticed over the past few months, he had the sneaking suspicion that Jagged had somehow become one of GUN's field agents. That would figure – He would fit right in with all those sinister bastards. GUN was full of them already, why not squeeze another in there?

Wedgie the Penguin, who was probably the absolute _**worst **_bounty hunter Fang had ever met, had once tried to cut in on his capture of a big-name mafia wannabe, Vinnie the Walrus. Naturally, Wedgie had nearly gotten his freezy ass blasted off when Fang got annoyed with him, but his interruption had caused the walrus to evade capture. It took another week before Fang had caught up with him again and finally brought the smug bastard into custody. He'd seen Wedgie a few times since then, and the penguin had been very apologetic. By his good graces, Fang had forgiven the little piece of crap so long as he promised never to stick his nose into bounty hunting _ever _again. A terrified Wedgie had accepted these terms.

Then there was a trio of hunters working for Bountech, an up-and-coming corporation that likened itself to something of a bounty hunters guild and had their members test equipment in the field before offering it up for sale to military branches. The Kangaroos were even worse than Jagged the Hyena as Fang's largest concerns when it came to rival bounty hunters. They weren't brothers like the Ed lizards, but if anything they were more horrible and awful than those scaled weirdoes could have hoped to be. Smiley the Kangaroo headed the bunch, and he was probably the outright most vile piece of giddy scum Fang had ever heard of. From photos he'd seen of the fellow, Smiley got his nickname thanks to his almost patented ear-to-ear, maniacal grin. Fang had grown to loathe that grin.

Speedy the Kangaroo was Smiley's right-hand dirtbag. Speedy was supposedly extremely quick on the draw, and couldn't have been called a terrible shot either, and that was all the info Fang needed on him. If he ever encountered a situation where he would be forced to best the Kangaroos, he'd most likely have difficulty choosing between Smiley and Speedy for his first target.

Shifty the Kangaroo was Smiley's left-hand goon. He was nothing but a yes-man, when it came down to it. Fang didn't have much information on him, though, other than that. All he knew was that he, like the rest of the Kangaroos, probably knew how to use a gun. That was his largest concern. Not that it would matter much – Fang was quicker and a better shot than all of them; he was sure of it.

And then there was Claw the Mole. Claw wasn't really a bounty hunter, he was more of what Fang would call a _retarded fantasy-land-dwelling faggot. _Claw couldn't really decide whether he wanted to be the world's greatest bounty hunter or the world's greatest criminal. He sucked at both jobs, so Fang couldn't see what the point of sitting around thinking it over was. However, Claw claimed himself to be _both _a bounty hunter and criminal, which Fang also couldn't quite understand. If one was a bounty hunter, yet at the same time had a criminal record, how in the world would they be able to actually _collect _bounties without getting _themselves _busted? They'd probably have to use cronies, but Claw was just so stupid and jerkassed that he didn't have anybody who even _wanted _to be his friend.

Fang had long ago made a note to take care of a select few rivals. Claw the Mole was one of them. Jagged, he had no immediate problem with, so he would only take out the crazy psycho if he had to. While he didn't hold any sort of respect for the Kangaroos, troublemakers as they were, they were essentially in the same category as the hyena – Eliminate if necessary. Wedgie wasn't around anymore, so he didn't have to worry about him. If any of them deserved to die, it was Claw.

At least six months earlier, Claw had gotten the brilliant idea that he was going to perform a bank robbery. Heck, he was smart enough to do so, and skilled enough to do so, so why not? He'd later found out that being smart and being skilled does not entitle one to free bags of money, and he actually wasn't smart or skilled anyway, so he'd ended up blasting the hell out of an entire bank and killing numerous innocent civilians including at least three bank guards and two children. Claw didn't get away with a single cent. He deserved nothing for his acts. Fang would eventually bring justice to the mole as a personal gift to himself – Permanent justice. No amount of jail time could serve the penalty that came with death.

Patiently sitting through the garbage that the commercials barked to him about, the usual dribble about the pills that would make him perform better with the ladies and that Red Cow energy drink stuff – "It gives you a means by which to fly!" – he waited for the news as he propped a leg up onto the nearest table, but immediately grimaced at the intense pain that coursed through both of them when he did so.

_Shit! _he cursed in his mind angrily. The pain suddenly dulled, but this only felt even worse. Fang grabbed his knees with his gloved hands, shutting his eyes tightly to try and block out some of the horrid feelings.

His leg problems had been going on for some time – he didn't remember exactly when they'd cropped up. He wasn't out of shape or anything, but he couldn't decipher what exactly was wrong with them. The steel-braced boots he wore kept them out of harm's way, along with keeping them from bouncing around too much as he walked, but when he ran, things got bad. He'd always feel the after-effects afterwards. It never failed. Many who knew of him questioned his inability to run quickly like the majority of those like him, including Sonic the Hedgehog. Sonic the Hedgehog's approximate-and-absolute top speed at sea level in a straight line was close to eight hundred miles an hour. Fang couldn't even hit one hundred.

What didn't help was his lack of physical strength altogether. He might have been tough like leather, but he lacked raw body power, and his only real offensive advantage in terms of fitness was his springy, prehensile tail. The power of the thing was comparable to Knuckles the Echidna's arms. That, besides his dead-eye, quick-draw, and icy trigger finger, was his strongest point. It almost annoyed him that he had such handicaps, and his leg issues weren't making things any better for him. It often frustrated him to no end, but he rarely let the pain get to him. If he did, he wouldn't do his job very well. He could have no other interests but his job while he was busy. Focusing on anything else would potentially get him blown away.

The pain began to disappear, allowing him to breathe in relief. Already, the television's images had left the crap that were commercials, and the news finally came on. An attractive female with a sparkly smile pasted on her face appeared, along with the usual kiss-ass logo in the corner of the screen. "This is SS-4 News at six – With Tricia Dortmund!"

Fang sniffed, still feeling the effects of his cold thanks to being out in the rain for such a long period of time while hunting that obnoxious hippopotamus. Great – more of that thousand dollars down the drain. Hello, drug store.

"Hello, I'm Tricia Dortmund," Tricia Dortmund stated matter-of-factly, "and this is SS-4 News at six."

_I had no idea, _Fang thought impatiently. He'd only seen this program thirty trillion times.

"Three of South Island's most wanted criminals are now in the custody of the Station Square Police Department. Last night, the notorious Ed brothers, Ted, Ned, and Jed, were brought in to the downtown precinct's front office, all taken in to the authorities by the hands of a bounty hunter who had been after them for some time. The brothers had been evading capture for months, but they finally met their match just outside Capital City, when the bounty hunter made a surprise attack and put them all under arrest before they could once again escape justice."

Fang raised an invisible eyebrow. The television picture changed from sweet, braindead little Tricia Dortmund to a photo of the three lousy lizards next to Sergeant Baker, along with the predator who had nabbed them: Jagged the Hyena, who had at the time been in the process of shooting the bird to the photographer when the photo had been taken.

"The Ed lizards are currently awaiting trial for bigotry, grand theft auto, and multiple instances of robbery. With the reward for the lizard gangsters being so high, they had been pursued by bounty hunters ever since the call came out from the government for their arrest. Each lizard carried a bounty of at _least _thirty thousand dollars, coming out to a total of ninety thousand dollars awarded to their captor. Sergeant Bob Baker of the Station Square Police Department was only too happy to give the reward."

_Well, that's nice, _Fang started to think, until: "_**WHAT!!**_"

"Sergeant Baker reiterated the importance of a system that justified the _blah blah etcetera etcetera..._"

"THAT SON OF A_ BITCH!!_" Fang shouted in what was likely the loudest tone of voice he'd ever used in his life, leaping out of the chair in a frenzy. That damned miserable bastard Baker! "ONE THOUSAND, MY PURPLE _**ASS!**_"

"The Ed brothers are expected to be transferred to Prison Island to await their trial, which has by now been scheduled for a yet-to-be-determined date in late July." Tricia Dortmund smiled for the camera happily. "Lawyers for the victims are reasoning with GUN to pre-empt that date, however."

"**NINETY THOUSAND SON OF A BITCHASS DOLLARS!!**" Fang roared.

"With the wanted brothers in custody, the department is already the target of scrutiny, as the Ed brothers are not only notorious for robbery and the rest of their crimes, but for breaking away from a police convoy that had been escorting them to Prison Island for earlier crimes two years ago. Critics wonder if the department is safe and competent enough to hold such criminals of notability."

"AGGGHH!" Gripping his cheeks while grinding his teeth in fury, Fang wondered how he could have been so naive. He should have demanded more at the time – Screw Baker's begging, whether the man's fright had been real or not. One thousand dollars was all the department had? Right. You didn't hand over ninety thousand dollars without checking your bank account first. The police would never let themselves get so agonizingly close to the thin line between profit and the hole. Baker had been flat-out lying. Either that or Jagged the Hyena had threatened him in the same manner as Fang did if he didn't get the almost hundred-thousand clams. "Damn it! Damn it! Son of a bitch! I'll kill him! I'll rape his ancestors! I swear to frickin'—"

"Now let's go to our traffic report—" Tricia Dortmund started pleasantly in the middle of Fang's tangent.

_"SHADDAP!"_ Fang kicked the switch on the television to shut it off.

This was all wrong. Sergeant Baker must have been back there, sitting at his desk in his comfy little office, counting his money while guffawing to himself over the silly bounty hunter who had been there not an hour ago; the bounty hunter who he'd made a complete fool of. _Oh, we're not really offering fifteen thousand! Just one thousand! We just really wanted Hemorrhoid the Hippo in custody – Just like the Ed brothers! Screw you, Baker. I'll have my money before you can ever even realize it's gone, you fat pig._

Of all the dirty, black-hearted tricks. Fang was angered all over again, but he forced himself to calm his boiling nerves before he could have a heart attack. He'd get back at Baker – Oh yes. By God, he'd get started now.

Rushing over to his phone, he snatched it off the base and flipped open the phone book, skimming through it with the speed of Sonic the Hedgehog.

* * *

Officer Bill had by now started to doze off after throwing Hemorrhoid the Hippopotamus into one of the cells – in particular the one that contained Bubba the Grizzly – and doing the other usual and very nonsensical errands that Baker repeatedly shoved down his throat daily, but before he could slip away into dreamland, the noisy phone on his desk piped up, sending a hideous wail throughout the station. Startled, Bill grabbed it before it could wake up Secretary Josie and blinked his eyes a bit to get the bags out of them. "Hullo?"

"Yeah, hello, underpaid phone monkey," the extremely pissed off voice on the other line snarled, "get Sergeant Baker on the phone _**now.**_"

Bill's eyebrows rose. "Uh, may I ask who's—"

"_**NO,**_** GODDAMN IT!**" The department building's entire structure rattled. "**GET BAKER ON THE PHONE BEFORE I COME DOWN THERE **_**MYSELF**_** AND PUT HIM ON!!**"

"Y-Yes-sir!" Bill hurriedly pressed the phone's Hold button, and switched the line over to Baker's office. "Sergeant Baker?"

Baker coughed and cleared his throat. "Grf--? WHAT!?"

"There's a, um, slightly concerned fellow on line one. He sounds rather fixed on speaking with you at the moment."

"Is it another one of those media jerkasses?" Baker groused in annoyance. "I've talked to at least two of them today! That's two too many."

"No," Bill muttered, rolling his eyes. "I don't know who it is."

"WELL, WHY THE **HELL **DIDN'T YOU ASK WHO IT WAS!?"

Bill sighed. "He sounds like a GUN agent." _He certainly had the attitude of one._

Baker suddenly sounded like he was choking on his phone's cord. "A GUN agent!? Damn it, quit hogging up the line, Bill!"

"Yes-sir."

"And while we're at it, get me some coffee!"

"_Yes_-sir."

"Oh, and check on the prisoners, too."

"… _**Yes**_-sir."

"I think Hemorrhoid needs some medicine from a pharmacy or something for that, uh, condition of his. Go down to Osco and—"

"_**YES-SIR!**_" Bill slammed the phone down onto the hook in anger before he could consider the consequences. "Whoops."

* * *

Fang stood there in his office, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for a voice to come across on the other line. If they put him through to someone _other _than Baker, he would hang up. He wasn't about to play monkey in the middle with a couple of secretaries. He needed to talk to the Sergeant, and if he didn't, he'd go right down there, grab the man by his slimy throat and shake that fifteen thousand out of his pocket if he had to. _You don't screw around with a bounty hunter like me and get away with it, you bastards._

Finally, a second before he considered just hanging up and going down there in person, a grizzled, irritated voice cleansed the silence. "This is Sergeant Baker of the Station Square Police Dep—"

"Be quiet, you bastard," Fang interrupted. "I want to talk about my money."

Hesitation. "Your money?"

"YES, my money, you DEADBEAT! You owe me fourteen thousand dollars!" Fang's hand gripped the phone so hard he threatened to squeeze it in half.

Baker got angry -- fast. "Nack the Weasel! Damn it, I thought I told you we don't have fourteen thousand damned dollars! After that stunt you pulled, you were lucky to get what we have! One thousand!"

Fang ignored the bastardous name throttling. "Oh really?"

"Yes," Baker growled, "_really!_"

"Tell that to Jagged the Hyena." The bounty hunter grimaced at the thought of the fellow bounty hunter, running around and likely blowing the reward money at Casinopolis or something. Fang didn't like Jagged in the first place – and vice-versa – but this only made it worse. Jagged didn't deserve ninety thousand dollars, but Fang felt _he _did. Perhaps that was just his ego, and he unconsciously didn't believe himself, since Jagged had made the captures by himself. And what the hell was a moron like Jagged going to do with ninety-thousand dollars? Blow it on nachos and Thirstbusters? "Him and his ninety thousand greens."

Silence encrypted the line once again. Baker must not have been expecting the bounty hunter to know of Jagged's exploits. That was almost a given anyway – Baker had probably never heard of the evening news, despite how he should have known his ugly mug would be all over it that night. The Sergeant finally resumed the conversation, his voice low and dirty; it suited him well. "Where did you hear about that?"

"The news. You'd be surprised at how they, you know, cover the news." Fang glowered at his currently lifeless television, remembering silly little Tricia Dortmund and her sillier little smile.

Baker's voice was metallic and stuffy thanks to the poor phone connection. "The news? My God, don't they know when to keep quiet?"

"It was only the biggest arrest in the last year," the bounty hunter commented, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "I'm _really_ surprised _too_ that they actually talked about it. I'm sure the Station Square Elementary pie-eating contest was _much _more interesting. Was that what you were expecting?"

"I specifically told them to keep the reward money issued for the capture of the Ed brothers under wraps!"

"Why?" Fang questioned. "So you could keep on with your little con? You know, the one where you _owe me fourteen thousand dollars!?"_

"Well," Baker remarked, "one thousand dollars was all we had! We don't have any more."

"_Hah!" _came the immediate laugh. "You'll have to do better than that, you worthless sack of uniformed trash."

"It's the truth! I—"

He was interrupted before he could go off on another excuse-filled tangent. "So you're saying you don't have my fourteen thousand?"

"That's right," Baker responded bluntly, "we don't."

Fang lowered his voice. "Then where am I going to get it?"

Baker went silent again.

"Well?" Fang was growing impatient and frustrated with the hell-bound police official.

"How should I know?" asked a slightly disconcerted Baker, obviously growing more than a little uncomfortable while on the phone with the notorious sharpshooter.

"You're the one who owes the money," the bounty hunter snarled. "You figure it out."

"The Station Square police department owes you _nothing, _bounty hunter. You got your reward!"

"But it wasn't the _FULL REWARD!" _Fang blared, his voice rising. "The reward was for _FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS! _Do you have the mentality of a blind, deaf, retarded _APE?! _Check the friggin' wanted poster! I didn't see anything about a _Reward Subject To Change Thanks to Authoritative Idiocy _disclaimer anywhere on there!"

"We changed it," Baker returned, his tone very similar to Fang's, "and THAT'S _THAT! _You are NOT GETTING another DIME from us!"

Fang's expression went black, and he honestly wished he could reach through the phone and just strangle this bloody fool until his teeth rattled. "I'll come down there and I'll tear your department down brick by brick until I have that money! What's the matter with you, you curd-faced redneck? You issued a reward for fifteen thousand dollars, and I got one thousand! Less than a TENTH of my REAL reward! I'm not the one at fault here, you cheating _bastard!_ You're the one who's trying to keep that money away from me! Why? So you can GET THE DEPARTMENT ITS DAILY FILL OF DONUTS, FOR ALL I KNOW!!"

"You'll _NEVER _SEE THAT MONEY!!" Baker erupted, the phone on Fang's end scratching loudly. "_**NEVER!! **_YOU COME DOWN HERE AND _TRY_ THAT, you ignorant, arrogant little _VIRUS! _I'LL SIC EVERY BOUNTY HUNTER ON THIS ISLAND AFTER YOU!! You'll be hunted by your OWN KIND, YOU SNIVELING LITTLE _DEMON!!_

"I'll get my money," Fang said, his voice suddenly easy. "I'll have it. You won't be able to keep it from me forever. One day, you'll look in your bank account and say, _hey, my dear girl, where's that fourteen thousand I was going to use to have my ass waxed by that lovely man who works at the tanning salon? _And the ten-dollar hooker you bought will look at you and say, _that bounty hunter took it, you dumb shit. You knew he'd get it sometime, didn't you? Frickin' moron."_

His sharp change in demeanor only angered Baker more. "You'll **DIE **before you ever see that money, weasel! Do you hear me?"

Fang repressed a smirk.

"_YOU'LL DIE!!_"And the line went dead as the phone on the other line slammed down onto the base, likely breaking the whole contraption in the process.

For his part, Fang hung up his phone rather more peacefully. He didn't really have the money to buy another phone anyway, since his thousand dollars was as good as spent on maintaining his home and equipment. "Son of a bitch."

He would have been less angry with the Sergeant if the man had actually bothered telling him the truth. What really annoyed him was that Baker was simply a flat out liar, and was hounding money for his own pockets. Fourteen thousand dollars worth, at that – With all the work that he'd gone through to actually get the reward money, Fang felt he deserved it if anything. Hemorrhoid had been the biggest pain in the ass _ever _to bag, what with his obnoxious little grenades. He would never, _ever _have gone after the hippo if the reward were only one thousand dollars. Hemorrhoid's life wasn't worth one thousand dollars, Fang would give him that much, but his capture was worth quite a pretty penny. Too bad the people taking him in were such tightasses.

But part of what Baker had said concerned Fang. It didn't worry him – It only concerned him; gave him something to think about. While he'd been lying about how much dough the department carried, he no doubt hadn't been telling a tall tale when he'd threatened to send Fang's fellow bounty hunters after him. Fang was already convinced he'd best any of them, no matter how big or dangerous, but that would have been a lot of work – Work he really didn't need or want to worry about. Such a load on his back would be unnecessary and more than a little irritating.

He held a hand to his forehead. This was ridiculous. Things always had to be so much harder than they could have been, but Fang reasoned that nothing in life ever came easy. It was all too true with Baker, Hemorrhoid, and everything else he had been put through lately. Everything was difficult these days, from his current troubles with the department, the bounties, even his own legs were putting up a fight. But he had to keep strong through it all. He wasn't a person who could fail and get back up. If Fang failed, then he was doomed. No one would help him get back up. They'd keep him down if anything. He always had to stand, no matter what. He would never surrender – He'd fight as hard as he could. He had to do so in order to keep living.

He sighed, looking through the office and out a window in the hallway, into the heavy rain. It still wasn't letting up, and it only worsened his already abysmal mood.

People like Baker got on his nerves so much. Fang just wished the world would be cleansed of such imbeciles. It would make society so much easier to deal with, and it would certainly be easier on him, although he'd likely have to find a different line of work. His source of income revolved around imbeciles like Hemorrhoid the Hippopotamus. Even the most intelligent of criminals had trouble when dealing with Fang the Sniper. The weasel-wolf crossbreed was mentally as sharp as a tack, and his brilliantly cold, calculating mindset was often enough alone to get him through a fight. At this thought, Fang decided that perhaps morons in the world weren't so bad.

Baker was in his own league, though; a league of extraordinary assholes. That's what the man was, at heart – A monumental asshole, and while it probably wouldn't look very nice, Fang's boot was going to be stuck there when he got through with him. _That ought to teach the bull-headed dog not to mess with employees of his who don't follow his rulebook._

He shuffled over to the wall, flipping the brown, black-banded outback hat off his violet head. Heading out of the office – his room – and stepping into a bathroom, he did what it was there for and otherwise made himself ready for bed. While it was only after six in the evening, the day had been particularly rough on him, what with the annoyance that was Hemorrhoid the Hippo and all. This was how it usually was. While many bounties he took on weren't necessarily as difficult as the hippo's, they often lasted days, if not weeks. One or two bounties he was still after – which was a very rare occurrence for Fang – but they had disappeared long ago. They were likely buzzard food by now.

Removing his gloves, he brushed his teeth and stepped over to his messy bed, sorting himself into it slowly to keep from angering his legs anymore than he already had. Sleep would help. Sleep always helped. He'd head over to the nearby bar in the morning and get something to ease his mind and pain, so long as he didn't get in any fights. That place was notorious for all sorts of rough individuals, and quite often the whole bar had to be closed because of some sort of random ruckus. Even during church down the street it could be bustling with activity. Hell, more people went to the damn bar than the church on Sunday mornings. Typical for an environment such as this. If only it were like the rest of Station Square.

But that didn't matter now. Sleep mattered. Nothing but rest would help Fang feel any better about the events forced upon him as of late. The darkness of unconsciousness was a place he could go to relieve himself of the constant worries he suffered. Baker and the rest of the world were nothing there, and for that reason, he couldn't wait to fall asleep.

Leaning his head back on the pillow, he started to think about the situation all over again, but everything went black before he could do so.


	3. Idle Conversation

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Three – Idle Conversation--**

Morning came all too soon for Fang.

The very first thing he noticed when he awoke out of the darkness was that it was positively _freezing _in the building. At first he couldn't tell if he were in bed or taking a bath in a tub of snow, but the feeling did a great job of kicking him right out and onto the bleak gray carpet floor. Grabbing his arms with his hands, he leaned out the room's door, trying to gain his bearings after getting up so frighteningly quickly. "What the hell happened in here, a nuclear winter?"

A quick inspection of his nearly-broken cooler confirmed it wasn't active, so he jutted out into the hallway and looked about for the source of the snowstorm. It was still pouring down rain, though it had probably let up sometime during the night for a few periods. Still, the horrid weather was likely partly to blame for the apparent winter in the middle of his domain. Perhaps he'd left a window open some time before and he'd completely forgotten about it. Whatever the case, he'd have to figure it out, and fast, before he turned into the world's most lifelike snowman.

As he rounded one corner in the hallway, his black eyes darted to and fro until they suddenly encountered the source of the problem. It was indeed a window, but he hadn't left it open in any way. It had opened by itself – sort of. The glass apparently had cracked somehow in the night, and was by now almost entirely shattered. "_Damn it!"_

That was just great. Now he was charging into the hole, despite that thousand dollars Baker had waved him off with. If he estimated correctly, maintaining his equipment had already taken up half that thousand, and the bills to the apartment building had already nabbed the remaining five-hundred. Fabulous – This was calling it close. He'd have to go out and find more work soon, but first he needed to get the fourteen thousand dollars Baker owed him, and quickly. If he didn't get ahold of that money soon, he'd be in damn deep shit, and he'd been in damn deep shit before. He wasn't about to go jumping right back in all because of some stupid police sergeant whose head was so far up his ass the lump in his big, fat neck was his nose.

He rubbed his sleepy eyes a bit, partially from the cold air coming in through the broken grass. He needed to head on over to that crazy bar, Dead-Drunk Dave's, and get a drink or something. Nevermind the fact he really couldn't afford one with all the stuff he had to do – Screw it. If you were down to your last quarter, go to town. He'd have plenty of money after he got what was rightfully his from Baker, but first he needed to sit for a bit and ponder how he'd go about doing so.

After fixing up the gaping holes in the window as best he could with masking tape, he went about himself, getting ready to go out for that drink he needed to help him think about what to do, along with scanning the bar's patrons themselves. Fang always kept an eye out wherever he went for possible bounties on the run, and on more than one occasion he'd nabbed a good heap of dough thanks to some wanted dimbulb waltzing around in Dead-Drunk Dave's like he was the world's most innocent piece of crap. He could only hope that there was some idiot getting drunk off his ass at the bar when he got there so he could get a little more cash flow. He needed all he could get right now.

Standing in his garage, he hefted his gunbelt off the nearby dusty table and attached it to his furry little belly, then snatched his .45 semiautomatic handgun and admired it for a moment. It wasn't a custom pistol, but the strange little man who had sold it to the bounty hunter supposedly hadn't been able to remember its make, as far as he knew. All Fang needed to know was whether or not it shot straight. The .45 packed a punch, so he didn't need to worry about power much. Not that he would have had to anyway – Any gun in the hands of Fang the Sniper would kill you just as dead.

He spun the pistol on his finger, letting it slip into the holster in a flashy move he performed only for personal gratification, and he lifted himself up onto the _Marvelous Queen _sitting patiently, the airbike waiting for him all the while. In moments, he'd left the garage and was scooting along on the open, empty Station Square roadway amidst the heavy rain.

The streets were entirely devoid of life, besides Fang and the occasional stray mutt. Only did he notice some signs of civilization when he passed the church some ways down the road. There were a few cars parked in its small lot, he noticed. It was Wednesday, but since hardly anyone who had the balls to actually live in this sector of town didn't work, the church usually just held services whenever there were enough people who gave a damn to listen to the poor preacher. As far as he knew, Fang hadn't set foot in there or any church in his entire life. Maybe he'd gone once when he was a kid, but he no longer had use for religion, considering his line of work. He didn't like to admit it, but it would have just gotten in the way.

Taking a sweeping right turn down the long roadway as it curved slightly, the hot blue-yellow neon sign detailing Dead-Drunk Dave's best advertisement flashed in the rain, as though a beacon for unfortunate travelers who had somehow gotten themselves lost in this horrid section of Station Square to curl up and get wasted. Fang slowed the airbike down and gradually let it come to a rest on the ground in the alley next to the filthy looking bar. _This place gets lousier every time I come here._

Within moments, he was off the leather seat of the _Queen _and stepping towards the plush-red front door to the bar, but before he could even lay eyes on it, some laughing fool blasted right through it and landed on the sidewalk, guffawing over some random joke he'd likely already forgotten. Fang tucked his hat down further onto his head, glaring at the drunken jackass, and he quietly stepped over the fellow and headed on into the bar. This probably wouldn't end well, he reckoned.

Loud, smoky, crowded. Three words – No, wait: Trashy – Four words that could successfully describe Dead-Drunk Dave's miserable hiding hole. It was obnoxiously crowded, with random folk talking noisily and smoking and drinking up a storm while watching baseball games or car races on the big TVs in the high roof's corner, but while Fang didn't necessarily like crowds, the more people there were, the higher the chances were of him bagging a bounty while here. Still, he had other things of importance to concentrate on at the moment.

He shuffled over towards the bar-table, since most of the booths were occupied. Only a second after he'd taken a seat on one of the uncomfortable stools, Dead-Drunk Dave himself took notice of the bounty hunter and grinned widely. The rather dirty and slightly imbecilic man came palooking over, shining a glass while grinning like the stupid moron he was. "Well, I'll be _damned! _Nack the Weasel!"

Fang refrained from rolling his eyes. "Soda – I don't care what kind."

"Man," Dead-Drunk Dave blathered, "I ain't seen you for ages in here! How the hell are you? Catch any crooks lately?"

"_Soda," _Fang muttered in a louder tone.

"Shoot-boy-howdy-damn, son, what you been up to? Y'hear anything 'bout Sonic the Hedgehog or that Professor Eggnik Robotman lately? Hey, are you here to—"

Fang shifted himself on the stool and held his foot up over the bar so Dead-Drunk Dave could get a real good look at it. "You see this? You know what this is?"

"Uh—" Dead-Drunk Dave blinked.

"This is called _my boot. _Now, _my boot _won't look real pretty sticking out of _your ass_, but that's where it's going to be in a minute if you don't _get me a GODDAMN SODA."_

Dead-Drunk Dave's eyes went as big as the moon. "Yuh-- Yes-sir! Right away! What kind you want? We got all kinds!"

"I don't care." Fang lowered his leg, his focus leaving the owner of the bar and his stupidity.

"Right away!" And Dead-Drunk Dave went about fixing up whatever urine he chose to serve the bounty hunter. Fang honestly didn't care if it was toxic waste; he needed something to drink and fast. He didn't enjoy drinking alcohol, as he only did it when he had to, nor did he actually smoke. He didn't exactly feel at home in the bar. He was likely the only person in there who wasn't drinking or smoking. Thankfully, no one had noticed he'd ordered nothing but a soda, although he really didn't care if anyone had in all honesty.

The barkeeper was back within seconds, having probably broken some kind of world record. "Here y'are, Nack."

Fang sighed, took the drink and started to take a courageous sip.

Dead-Drunk Dave cleared his throat. "Um, that'll be four dollars."

Fang slammed the drink down onto the bar. "_**FOUR DOLLARS!?**_"

The barkeep leapt back sheepishly. "_ONE dollar! _One dollar for you, good sir! One! Just one."

Frowning, Fang reached back onto his gunbelt and flipped two dollar bills onto the bartable out of his own good graces. _Damned inflation. It'll be ten dollars by the time I take my next breath._

Snatching the bills, Dead-Drunk Dave turned without another word and wandered away from the bounty hunter, likely feeling himself lucky to even be standing after such an incursion. Fang was glad to see him go – He needed to concentrate.

Up until that point, the only way he'd reckoned he'd be able to get his money back would be to barge right into Baker's office and strangle him until he coughed up that fourteen thousand. It was a damn police department; he couldn't just crash in and start shooting up the place. The peaceful approach would have to do unless he thought of something better – Walk in and ask to see Baker, then tear the man limb from limb when they were alone. Chances were, though, that Baker had by now ordered his underlings to keep Fang from entering the office. That would complicate things.

Perhaps he could frame Baker in some way. Blackmail was always entertaining, especially on imbeciles who thought they knew what they were doing but in reality didn't: People like Baker. He didn't have much to go on, though. Perhaps he could break into the man's office during the night. The rest of the department would be busy with shifts and everything, but Baker would be home in bed by that time. He could sniff around the office for those lovely little _incriminating _pieces of evidence – An affair with some big celebrity or some such nonsense that the man would be willing to fork big bucks over for. That would work nicely, since Fang could get away with even more money than the fourteen thousand, but that all rested on whether or not Baker was honest or dishonest – And he clearly wasn't the former. Still, it was risky enough breaking into the department, and then Baker may not even have such "evidence" at all.

He could always break into the man's bank account, though. That would require much more work, though, and Baker probably didn't have fourteen thousand stashed away in the account anyway. And that would require a horde of computer tools that Fang didn't have access to at the moment.

Ransom? That often worked, but Fang already had a dismal relationship with the law already, and he wasn't some pitiful kidnapper who nabbed little girls off the streets and held a gun to their heads unless he got a big sum of cash and plane ticket to some lame third-world country. That was out of the question.

And then he could always do things the – cringe – honest way. Nab a bunch of bounty bullshits and lug them into Baker, and get all friendly with the fellow and get that fourteen thousand the nice way.

Fang sneered. Not if his success rested on the biggest meteor in the universe not crashing into Earth.

"Hey, is that who it looks like?" he heard a sly voice utter from somewhere behind him, amidst the bar as flashes of lightning from outside flew through the windows, thunder rumbling through the bar. At first, Fang didn't think the comment had anything to do with him, but then, he got a bad feeling that didn't feel like it was about to go away.

"I'll be a sonofagun. That _is _who it looks like," the voice continued.

Fang hesitated a moment, then gave into the temptation and turned around slightly to peek at whoever was talking to make sure the fellow wasn't speaking about him.

His eyes narrowed, and he turned himself more in the seat, resting his arm on the bar.

There, at a circular booth not ten feet from where he sat, Smiley the Kangaroo's eyes centered dead on him, seated next to his two miserable kangaroo cronies, Shifty and Speedy. Smiley and Shifty were grinning, although Shifty didn't really look as though he understood what exactly was going on. Speedy, however, was giving the violet bounty hunter a most distasteful glower.

"Lookie at that, fellas," Smiley noted in that funny little voice of his. "The widely-acclaimed most _notorious _bounty hunter in the world."

Fang just sat there, but he was already on edge. Shifty's eyes widened, suddenly understanding quite well what was going on. "Boss, you mean that's Nack the Sniper!? D'ah, I mean, Fang the Weasel? Uh, Fack the Sneasel—"

"**SHADDUP.**" Smiley's hand went topside against the other kangaroo's skull.

Fang leered at the lot of them, no rival smile adorning his mug. These bastards. The trio of bounty hunters before him might have seemed pleasant enough, but he wasn't fooled. They were ornery, mean, and they looked it. Smiley was wearing his brown Stetson-style hat, as was Speedy, though the latter's was black in color and he had a foul look on his face instead of one of Smiley's stupid grins, effectively making him out to be the most unhappy-looking of the three. It made the two of them to look like damned posers, as far as Fang was concerned. At least Shifty wasn't trying to imitate Fang's dress code – He was wearing a big funny-looking red bandana over his head while rubbing the back of his noggin thanks to his boss.

All were silent. Fang had nothing to say to them.

Smiley eyed the weasel-wolf. "How ya doin'?"

Fang was silent.

"Good, eh?"

Still no response.

"You look like you've had a rough last coupla days."

Fang just sat there, stone-faced.

"What's that? Oh, yeah, we're doin' great. Thanks for askin'."

"I don't feel like talking," Fang muttered. _Not to you assclowns, anyway._

Smiley was on him like a predator to a meal. "You givin' up the ghost? Gettin' too old for the game? I figured as much. You'll be happy to know that in the untimely event of your retirement, the three of us are movin' up in the world. I think we've just about earned it, by now."

Fang rolled his eyes.

"Something wrong?" the kangaroo queried in a condescending way.

"Last I heard, you all were doing jobs for Bountech in Capital City." The weasel-wolf hybrid smiled ever so slightly – a very rare and unnatural thing to see on the face of Fang the Sniper. "Your little sissy poser asses get fired?"

"Nope, not at all." Smiley grinned that funny grin of his. "We just got a little tired of the way the bigwigs did things, so we requested a position change. They were a little too slow in issuing bounties for us to test their devices on, so we offered to nab the crooks on our own terms while still doing the testing. Bigger payload all the same, you see."

"They were really nice about it!" Shifty commented.

"No one **CARES**," Smiley blared, shutting his stupid friend up – at least for a moment.

Speedy's eyes still shot daggers at Fang.

The weasel-wolf took notice of the fact that all three of the kangaroos were packing heat – two guns for each of them, in hip holsters. Illegal as it might have been, the world was lawless enough for people like them to get away with it – not that Fang really cared about that, since he did it too. It was a kind of insurance. Fang couldn't determine what their makes were, but he knew to be a little more concerned about his personal safety now. Taking a quick sip of his drink beforehand – and making a face upon realization of the taste – Fang once again focused on the three weirdoes, specifically Speedy. "Hello, princess."

Speedy said nothing.

Quiet as he might have normally been, Fang couldn't resist flicking the guy's nerves. "Still practicing your aim on kids and stray dogs?"

Speedy the Kangaroo did not budge even an inch from his position in the seat. "I'll be testing my aim on _you _in a minute, Tinkerbell."

Fang didn't respond. The Kangaroos enjoyed irritating him, and silly threats against his life was one way to get under his skin. Speedy in particular was obnoxiously in love with threats, and unfortunately, he loved backing them up even more. It got on Fang's nerves that he had to contend with such monumental dilweeds as these three, but he had little choice in such a matter by that point.

"Ah-ah-ah. Try not to get my pals mad, amigo." Smiley's grin still hadn't faded at all since it had slithered its way to life. "Even I get a little bit wary around Speed' here when he's pissed off."

"And he'd get a little bit dead around me when I'm pissed off." Fang reluctantly took another sip of the vile drink, outright glaring at the Kangaroo gang as he did so. "You three lookin' for trouble or something?"

Speedy flexed his hand. "You lookin' to help us find some?"

"Yeah!" Shifty laughed. "You lookin' to—"

Smiley whacked the nosey kangaroo a good one. "**QUIET.**"

By then the conversation was attracting attention from not only Dead-Drunk Dave but from a few of the bar's patrons seated near the four of them. Fang would have preferred to keep this sort of thing under wraps, but around a couple of psychos like the Kangaroo gang, it couldn't have been helped. They loved attention anyway – especially Smiley. Him and that big, stupid, bullseye smile of his.

"So," Fang muttered, not necessarily interested in what these nutcases had been up to until then but asking anyway to spite their egos, "what have Larry, Curly, and Moe been busying themselves with as of late? The bottom of the barrel?"

"Welp, I think it goes without saying that we've been up to more than most folks out there – even you. Bagging only the best, I'd say. You've heard of Messy the Mongoose, haven't you? You know, that knucklehead who drove a car straight through six food stands on Station Square Boulevard? We caught up with him yesterday 'n' turned his lilyputtin' ass into the fuzzballs. Twenty-five thousand dollars for each of us!" Smiley stretched his fingers so they read two and five.

Fang's focus hardened. These dregs of society may have been screwing around with him, but the Kangaroos weren't known to be pathological liars. "Seventy-five thousand? For _him?_"

"Yep," Smiley uttered pleasantly, still leering at the rival bounty hunter. "Seventy-five grand for that useless hoser. And to think that somebody like him is actually worthless in reality. Bounty hunting's weird, like that, isn't it?"

"It tends to be," Fang agreed, however much he didn't want to with a bastard like Smiley the Kangaroo. "I should know."

"Yeah, of all people, I guess you should. I heard you picked up Hemorrhoid the Hippo and got a holy _whopping_ fifteen thousand." Smiley's vile grin grew wider, his odd eyes beaming with a grotesque mixture of pride and prejudice under the brim of his own brown outback hat. "I'll be damned if Nack the Weasel has fallen on hard times. There's a lot to be learned from your life, friend."

Fang suppressed an urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not your _friend, _you insignificant little ego-trip."

"You oughta be." Smiley's trademark name-sake didn't leave his mug in the least. "With those hokey old legs of yours, you'd probably feel a little safer with us. Bountech could use a fellow like you workin' for them."

"I don't work for anybody but myself," Fang grumbled. "I work for personal gain only."

"That's silly talk." Smiley propped his elbow onto the table for comfort. "A person can only get so far in this world by himself. You literally need a helping hand to get through life these days. As far as I know, you ain't got no friends, Fang the Sniper."

"Don't need none." Fang took another sip of the drink and tried to enjoy it. He couldn't.

"Not even a gal? Plenty'a gals at Bountech." Smiley giggled. "What, you some sort of backdoor baron? Never figured you as one-a-them."

"Your mother gives me enough to do as it stands." Immature as it may have been, Fang hadn't been able to resist.

"Ouch." Smiley's arms waved in the air. "I do believe my dignity has been tainted. This calls for another drink."

Speedy smirked – also an unnatural-looking facial expression for him – at the purple weasel-wolf as he let an arm hang from their seats' backrest. "Bountech doesn't need a worthless little sadsack like you. You couldn't handle it if you tried."

"No," Fang corrected, "I could handle it. If anything I'd be ahead of all three of you combined. That would be the reality."

"Would it, now?" Speedy seethed. "You think you can keep ahead of _me?_"

Fang knew what he was talking about.

"That's a given," he eventually remarked, looking straight at the crazy kangaroo. "An aborted fetus could shoot a gun better than you, you piece of garbage."

Speedy's cheeks burned in frustration and he started to stand. "Well, why don't we just _see _about that—"

"Cool it, Speed'. My show." Smiley's grin turned into a smirk of his own as he rested a gloved hand on the fellow bounty hunter's furry gray shoulder. "The guy ain't interested, understand? He _thinks _he's better off without bein' by our side. He _thinks _he can handle the workload nowadays, but he's nothin' but a washed up has-been. It's been a long time since we heard about you last, weasel. Ever since that fighting tournament where you got your ass handed to you by that echidna fella, I'd say. If I recall correctly, you didn't even last ten seconds. Where in this frickin' world have you been since then? A little town called Nowhere? That sounds like fun-- ... damnit, hang on." He kicked out viciously at the shifty, snickering kangaroo sitting next to him. "**SHUT...**_** UP!!"**_

"Actually," Fang contradicted, "I've been a lot busier than any of you for the past few years."

"Oh?" Smiley's smile was all pleasance.

Fang frowned at him. "Apparently, none of you read the newspapers. I've probably bagged more crooks than any of you have in your whole lives."

That was bull, but it worked. Speedy's cheeks flushed, his muscles tightening, and he nearly began to froth at the mouth. "You're a damn liar. You're just a broken-down cripple."

"I don't lie." Fang turned his gaze to the violent-looking kangaroo. "I wouldn't need to around someone like you anyway. The three of you couldn't catch a snail on a saltbed."

His frustration nearing the boiling point, Speedy curled himself out of the booth and barked at the rival bounty hunter: "I'll show _you _who's a snail, and then I'll show you a goddamn newspaper: The obituaries, and they're gonna have your name tomorrow. Get your ass off that stool."

"Speedy," Smiley growled, his grin beginning to fade, "knock it off."

"Yeah," Shifty murmured, growing uncomfortable, "knock it off!"

Smiley frustratedly shoved his palm straight into Shifty's face, emitting a deep _whack _sound. "Mmffgh!"

Speedy wasn't listening. Not that he would have with anything related to reasoning anyway. "It's been a long time comin', y'sack of purple trash. Throw down and grab iron so I can kill you."

The other patrons in the bar – the crazy ones, anyway – finally really began focusing on the argument, and some of them began to get riled up themselves.

While he didn't let his emotions get to him often, Fang could only take so much verbal abuse from an ignorant fellow like Speedy the Kangaroo for so long. He slipped off the stool and stood upright on the dirty tile floor, facing the three of them as he let his hand drop down towards the .45 pistol in his gunbelt's holster, and the look in his eye was suddenly much darker. "Sit down, or I'll air you out so much, you'll look like a popped balloon."

Speedy stepped away from the table slowly, silently. His gloved hand drifted towards one of his own sidearms.

The murmuring among the other customers collapsed entirely. Half the patrons almost instantaneously rushed up and hurriedly shuffled away from the argument that was by now looking to turn deadly. Smiley's eyes bulged and he scooted to the edge of the booth's seat, staring at his companion, growing very quiet as he spoke. "Speedy, cool down."

"I've had enough of this nickel 'n' dimes stuff," Speedy snarled.

Fang said nothing. He only stood there, hitting the kangaroo with one of his hardest looks.

"We don't get nothin' fer offin' him, Speed!" Shifty gripped the edges of the table, ready to duck under them at any moment for cover if bullets flew. "Watch yer temper!"

Speedy's hand rested an inch from the gun's black grip. Fang let his fingers hang so close to the .45's grip it was impossible to tell if he was actually touching it or not.

Dead-Drunk Dave swallowed hard and lowered himself under the bar. The rest of the people occupying the sleazy joint backed away further, many choosing to simply leave at that point, obviously deciding they were very lucky to even get out of there with their lives that day.

"Listen to me, we don't get nothin' fer killin' him!" Shifty repeated, lowering himself in his seat slightly.

"Who gives a shit?" Speedy hissed, his eyes remaining on Fang the entire time. "I'm doing us a damned favor. Sonofawhore's gonna die someday anyway. Might as well be now."

Shifty – nor Smiley for that matter – had much of an answer. Their lips locked up tight as they watched and waited.

The entire bar was shadowed in silence. By now at least half the patrons had taken off and the rest were either hiding under tables or in the bathrooms, not caring what the sign on the outside of the doors stated. This was no time to worry about being a man and setting foot into a girl's bathroom or vice-versa.

The gray kangaroo's breath rate lessened, as did Fang's.

Fang knew that if the crazy bounty hunter went for his gun, Speedy wouldn't be the only one in a heap of trouble. The purple weasel-wolf would likely have to contend with the psycho's dirty, mangy dog of a boss, along with Shifty – maybe. Smiley the Kangaroo wasn't about to watch one of his miserable cronies get gunned down and sit there and do nothing, no way. Everything depended on Speedy's actions. Either the place would be saved and peace would reign again or the bar was about to have some construction done thanks to the itchy trigger fingers of the four bounty hunters.

A stone-faced Smiley carefully let his hand rest on his own gun's grip. Shifty nervously performed the same action as discretely as he could.

Fang's eyes remained locked on Speedy's counterparts, frequently focusing on the kangaroo's hand instead. _Wait for it. Wait._

Speedy spat onto the floor, obviously mimicking the weasel-wolf's careful movements. He was watching – waiting as well.

Seconds passed.

His eyes fluttered ever so slightly. Fang remained entirely motionless.

Speedy glanced between his companions, Fang, the bar's patrons, and again Fang.

"I suppose we _won't_ get nothin' for it," the kangaroo finally said. "If I'm gonna kill you, I oughta be able to have somethin' to show for it. You're just a poor old cripple. Probably don't even carry a wallet."

Smiley's attention stayed right on his comrade. "That's right, we won't get anything. You won't get a damn thing, amigo. 'Cept maybe a big pain-in-the-ass court proceeding where we try to get you off the hook for blastin' him. Ease up and spare us the trouble."

Hesitation echoed from Speedy the Kangaroo. Finally, after a tense few seconds, he relaxed. "Yer one lucky little son of a bitch."

Fang said nothing, but remained on a high level of personal alert all the while. For all he knew, the wily kangaroo could whip around on him after getting a returning dose of courage and try his luck with the draw. That wouldn't turn out particularly well if the violet weasel-wolf crossbreed weren't focused at the time.

But that wouldn't happen – At least not today. Speedy still gave Fang a hideous scowl as he shuffled away from him towards the exit. Smiley watched his companion leave, and that grin of his returned as he slithered out of the booth. "I guess that's our cue."

Fang watched he and Shifty sort themselves up from the table, the bandana-adorned kangaroo being forced to pay the tab and tip. Smiley turned slightly and leered at Fang. "I'll let you in on a little secret. I stopped him because I don't think you really understood my offer. You can join us at Bountech and get a little extra moolah, if you play your cards right. You can't work for Bountech if you're dead, so play those cards carefully. Fifteen thousand for a useless hippo doesn't amount to much these days, does it? In our line of work, that'd last folk like you and me about two months. Not nearly enough to keep all that equipment of yours up and running, and that hole you live in furnished and kept. Do yourself a favor and join us before you end up in a ditch somewhere."

"Get away from me." Fang stared blankly at the kangaroo.

The rival bounty hunter's expression didn't lose color. "Yer loss."

Fang kept his eyes right on Smiley and Shifty as the two of them shuffled away from the table and towards the exit after Speedy. Smiley tipped the brim of his hat to Fang. "Adios."

And with that, the Kangaroos took their leave. The bar again slowly turned back into the usual, life-filled circus that it was, Dead-Drunk Dave slowly rising up from behind the bartop to survey the surroundings and make sure everything was clear so he wouldn't have to throw anyone out like the big, brave, manly man he was. Fang stepped backwards and sat back down on his stool, watching the three of them head out the door.

_What a couple of screwballs,_ he concurred to himself. What sucked was the feeling that he wouldn't be seeing the last of them anytime soon.

He reached up to take a sip from his glass, but as he laid a hand on the bartop, he realized it wasn't even there anymore. His eyes took focus and he realized that somewhere during the ruckus, his drink had spilled over somehow. Fang hissed loudly and knocked the glass away behind the bar, firing it into the wall.

_So much for that drink I needed._


	4. Bad Company

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Four – Bad Company--**

Night touched down upon South Island.

After a repulsive amount of repetitive consideration, Fang had eventually come to the conclusion that he would simply have to go into Station Square's downtown police station by whatever means necessary and look for some _incriminating _evidence against Baker. Blackmail, it would have to be – Fang didn't have much other choice in the matter, unless he wanted to starve to death without that fourteen thousand Baker still owed him. That didn't exactly look like the brightest future ever, so Fang opted for the other way to go. Even if he didn't find any good, magazine-worthy tidbits about Baker, he could likely find some other nonsense, such as the man's personal residence, bank account number, and so on. The break-in would be worth the while.

At least he wouldn't have to go barging in through the station's front doors. Baker's office was on the first floor and had a window, so he didn't have much to worry about in terms of actually getting in. Regardless, he took along the necessary equipment anyway, which in total equaled out to only be a compact flashlight, his combat knife, a minor toolkit, and the .45 pistol in his gunbelt's holster. That was all he would need in case he somehow ran into any unwanted trouble. That and a few spare clips, of course – Who knew when things would get out of hand? Hence, Fang never let his guard down.

The _Marvelous Queen _touched down not far from the station, in the middle of a dead alley distanced from the likely busy nighttime Station Square roadways. It didn't take Fang very long to walk on over towards the building, let alone approach Baker's office window. Glancing around occasionally to make sure he was truly alone in the alley by the police station, along with safely out of view of the traffic-goers, the bounty hunter peeked in past the glass. The room was empty; dark. Baker must have gone home for the evening – Just what Fang was wanting. He didn't need the fat badge-toting ape walking right in and tripping over him while he was in the middle of something.

His gloved hands reached down to pull up the window – and sure enough, it didn't budge. That wasn't unexpected; Fang figured it would have been locked, although one couldn't be certain around a total bumscrew like Baker. He scanned the borders of the window to search it for a specific lock or handle, hoping he'd be able to somehow pick it rather than find another way in. He didn't come up very successful, as there were one of each, but on the inside. Both would be, to put it lightly, difficult to get at. _Great._

He stood up and rubbed his chin. He couldn't very well break the damn thing without waking up all of Creation, and for crying out loud, this was a damn police station. The entire block would be crawling with cops before he could even finish. Besides, his maturity would never allow him to perform such a juvenile act, however much Baker deserved to have his window along with his face broken. There wasn't much else he could think of that would allow him to so easily get in.

_I could always knock out a cop and take his clothes. _He had a good snicker at that one. That never worked, despite how most seemed to think it was at least worth a try sometimes. Fang would never let himself perform such a stupid act of nonsense. Oldest damned cliché in the older damned book anyway. Besides, he had no desire to leave some poor unfortunate soul out here stark naked, let alone a police officer. _I may not like the law, but at least I have respect for it._

Biting his lip, eyes darting across the building's frame, his gaze eventually met the roof. That was likely a decent enough place to assist him in entering the station. Might as well, hell – He didn't have anything else to go on. He didn't feel like standing around out here all damn night anyway, considering he wasn't getting anything done, or more importantly getting any money in the process. Hopping backward slightly, he let his tail dip against the ground, allowing it to propel him skywards and up onto the building's top effortlessly.

_Damn, _he instantly thought as he surveyed the grounds of the roof, _do they ever clean up here? _Trash and smoke build-up clutched at the paneling on the roof, effectively making Fang want to puke before he could even realize how repulsive it was up there. It just figured that they'd leave a mess like this around without noticing or caring about it. Frowning, he glanced around for any other means of entering the building's interior, but considering it _was _a police station, they obviously wouldn't let something like a roof entrance slip past their eyes. The last thing they needed was someone breaking in – although that didn't help Fang any. _This place is like an army base. So what if it's a damn police station? It's not like anyone other than myself would even want to break into this craphole._

Sniffing – and regretting doing so for a moment – he scanned the roof further, noticing one aspect of the department. Apparently, whoever was in head-dog of the precinct – probably Baker, Fang presumed – was too tight-assed to buy an effective air conditioning system, so it looked as though they all relied on a group of swamp coolers to do the job. They were running, at the moment, too. He wasn't about to go crawling through the air vents, but he perhaps he could utilize the cooler system in some other manner, preferably one that wouldn't get him stuck in an air duct in the process.

He glanced at all the hideous garbage laying around and raised an eyebrow. _Hmm._

* * *

"So, Josie," Officer Bill goaded to the attractive young secretary, who was at the moment trying to ignore him as best she could but failing miserably, "I heard you used to go out with Sergeant Walls. Now, did he treat you right?"

Secretary Josie sighed.

"I'll take that as a no." Bill relaxedly sat back on her desk, successfully covering half her paperwork with his posterior. "Sergeant Walls never was very good with women. Take the Goober the Monkey, for instance. Boy, s_he _sure got the ass-end of the stick when it came to claims of police brutality, huh?"

Secretary Josie didn't answer, besides in the physical department, considering her face was turning a very red color.

"Now, uh. I know they have, uh, you know... _rules _against officers dating other officers, but you're not _really _an officer. I mean, you're a secretary. A cop is to a dog as a secretary is to a cat!" Bill chuckled uncomfortably. "And you are a _cat _if I do say so myself."

Before Josie could smack him upside the head with the nearest computer monitor, Bill's attitude suddenly changed. His nose perched upwards in disgust and his expression went green, but not with envy. "Holy **crap **in a **teapot**, what is that _**smell?**_"

Almost immediately after he stated the question, more officers blubbered into the lobby, the majority of them covering their noses while weird old Officer Paul sniffed the air as though smelling a five-star meal. The officers rushed through the adjacent hallways, trying to find the source of the very foul problem, but it had by now turned into a widespread problem, the vile stench sweeping over the entire police station. Bill and Josie were forced to rest their hands against their faces, wide-eyed with repulsion.

"Holy crap," most of them blared, "somebody turn on the fans! Turn off the damned air coolers! This place'll look like frickin' Normandy in a minute!"

The officers and the department's pencil-pushers rushed about, doing whatever they could to relieve themselves of the terrible odor apparently trying to kill them before an antidote could be found. Bill rushed into the nearest office – Baker's – and unlocked the window, shooting it open before he could puke. "I think I'm dying! Get my will out, Josie!"

Josie was too busy coughing to respond, but that was probably the best answer Bill could have gotten, regardless.

Bill hurried out of the office, searching out other windows to help the department in its dire battle against the smell.

He left too soon to see a dark figure drop from the roof beside the window. Fang the Sniper allowed himself to smirk for a half second, pleased with the sense of accomplishment surrounding his body. Dumping some of that disgusting garbage into the swamp coolers may have been a rather evil act on his part, nor was it particularly chivalrous, but he had no need of such consideration in his line of work. He did what needed to be done, and that was that. He couldn't do his job terribly well when he had limits to worry about. Too bad for the fuzz – They were really getting the short end of the stick now, thanks to his lack of personal boundaries.

Fang rested a hand on the window sill and propelled himself up through the big open gap, easily sorting himself into Baker's office. As soon as he landed, he rushed swiftly though quietly over to the door and closed it, instantly hitting the lock afterwards. With that, he had all the privacy he needed to search for whatever he could to use against Baker in order to receive that fourteen thousand the big, arrogant fricktard owed him. He whipped out the tiny flashlight on his gunbelt and switched it on, surveying the room.

_Might as well start with the desk. _It was the most likely place Baker would keep anything he didn't want inquiring eyes to see. Fang stepped over to it, raising his nose a bit at the putrid smell still radiating from the cooler, and he moved to open one of the drawers after shoving Baker's enormous chair out of the way. Sure enough, the damned thing didn't budge – Just like the window. _Goddamn it._

Grumbling, the bounty hunter instantly searched under the desk for any sign of a key that might open it, but there was no sign of anything besides fourteen wads of gum on its underside. Fang looked over towards the few shelves showcasing Baker's numerous awards and whatnot that he'd likely gotten for winning the precinct's weekly pie-eating contest, but likewise, nothing there could open the desk. The weasel-wolf crossbreed muttered some random vulgarity and plucked a lockpick set from a pack on his gunbelt, along with his combat knife for assistance. The pick set rarely met chances to help, and he wasn't very good with it, but it had seen its uses.

He instantly began tinkering with the with the pain-in-the-ass lock, digging the knife into its confines as well. If he couldn't find a way into these drawers, this whole trip may as well have been nothing but a pleasant little walk for exercise. _I swear, if you don't open right this instant..._

Nothing yet. Fang might have been patient, but he had limits. _Come on!_

Another moment passed, and yet still no progress. _I hate life._

This was ridiculous. The bounty hunter made a mental note to purchase a key machine somewhere in the near future with the fourteen thousand Baker would inevitably give him, unless the man were as stupid as a monkey, which he seemed to be. Fang had had easier times opening a safe with his bare hands.

He fiddled more with the stupid thing, using up a good deal of his sanity in the process. The pick gave its best efforts to help Fang in this miserable struggle and unlock the drawer for him already, but it seemed powerless to provide much assistance. The temptation to pull his sidearm and blast the whole damned desk to smithereens grew greater every second. _Goddang son of a bitch-ass piece of crap!_

Click.

Exasperated, Fang dropped the knife in relief and slung the drawer open – to discover it was entirely empty. "_Rrrrgh!!_"

"Alright, the cooler's off!"

Fang's head rose sharply towards the door, suddenly growing silent and motionless.

"What the hell caused it?" a second voice blabbered in a tone expressing disgusted curiosity.

"I don't know," the first returned, "but I'll call maintenance tomorrow and have them check it out. Baker probably just screwed it up on purpose again."

"Why don't you call them now?"

Fang ground his teeth and rolled his eyes, praying for the two imbeciles to leave the office's vicinity.

"Meh, they take forever to get out here anyway. What's one more day?"

More conversation followed, but the voices began to drift away. Fang waited until he could no longer hear them to resume searching the office. One drawer was empty, but what about the rest of them? He hadn't searched the shelves yet, either. Since the other drawers would likely bring him as much trouble as the first, he figured he'd just look elsewhere in the office for the time being. The bounty hunter picked himself up and scooted over towards one side of the room to examine whatever he could lay his eagle eyes on.

He picked up a framed picture sitting on one of the shelves, scanning it. Baker's fat face took up most of it, but a similarly large woman stood next to him in it; Fang presumed it was the sergeant's wife. Another picture lay near its original position, and this one included a few children who threatened to outweigh their parents. _These people are so fat, they need VCRs for pagers. Standards for being a fuzzball have gone down._

He started to move towards another group of shelves, but before he could, his black eyes spotted a board on the wall, showcasing a decent "wanted" list. Some of the wanted posters were obviously outdated, as Hemorrhoid the Hippo's ugly face showered part of it, with his fake little fifteen thousand dollar reward, but others were definitely still in effect. Fang's gaze rested directly on one wanted poster in particular.

_Wanted dead or alive – Claw the Mole, on four instances of armed robbery, twenty of grand theft / larceny, ten of second-degree murder, five of first-degree murder, six of voluntary manslaughter, twelve of assault / battery, countless of conspiracy, countless of tax evasion / fraud. Reward offered: Three hundred thousand dollars._

Fang raised an eyebrow. A bounty on the head of the most despicable creature he'd ever heard of, and it offered one of the largest rewards he'd ever seen. He reached out and ripped the wanted poster off the wall – He didn't need other bounty hunters like Jagged the Hyena or the Kangaroos walking in and seeing this thing. This bounty was his for the taking.

Just for good measure, he also took the wanted posters on two figures he knew to be Claw's miserable yes-men. Sombrero the Gila Monster, with his doofy white sombrero and a similarly-colored bandana over his face, looked like a pathetic excuse for a Village Person, but the little bastard knew how to use a gun and frequently showboated around about it like the blustering blowhard he was. Dry Horn the Bison preferred the use of a sawed-off shotgun, considering he couldn't aim worth a stink, so Fang would have to take care of that little nuisance if the time came. As they were just pitiful cronies, the reward for both Sombrero and Dry Horn was ten thousand dollars each – Considerably better than what Hemorrhoid had so far granted him, since they were _real _criminals and not just wannabes like that retard.

But Claw's head was the one he wanted to spring a leak in. Three hundred thousand dollars would feel real good in his pocket – as long as he didn't get stiffed _again _by the authorities. If that happened, people would die.

Folding them up, he shoved the wanted posters into a small compartment on his gunbelt and went back to work, examining the rest of the office for any clues he could nab. As soon as he was done here, he would head back to his living quarters and prepare to set out on Claw's trail, but he had to concentrate on this first. Fourteen thousand dollars would hold out for some time, hopefully long enough for him to get that three hundred thousand.

And after that, he'd find a higher bounty and go after that. Fang grinned. He lived for this.

He started to step back over towards the desk, but before he could, a terrible sound coursed through his nerves.

"Hey, Sergeant, back from, oh, what break is this? Fifth?"

"Very funny, Bill. Get back to work!"

Baker's voice had been the very last thing he'd ever wanted to hear at that moment. Fang's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

The door handle rattled repeatedly. "What the hell? Who locked this damn door? Bill!"

Cue an audible sigh. "_Maybe _you just locked it before you left for your break, and forgot about it, sir."

"That's bull! I never forget anything! I have the mind of an elephant!"

"Yes you do, sir. Yes, you do."

Fang's head swiveled around, searching for whatever means of hiding he could spot. The only decent hiding place was the office's closet, and that was good enough for the bounty hunter. He rushed into it and closed the door just as Baker unlocked the opposite entryway's handle.

The sergeant blubbered into the room, flipping on the light switch. "Bill! Get me a bagel!"

Bill groaned from the lobby. "Yes sir."

Baker leaned out the door halfway. "With cream cheese!"

Cue another audible sigh. "_Yes, _sir."

Muttering something about the lack of work ethic among his employees, Baker shut the door and sauntered over towards his desk, undoing his already untidy tie so blood could finally flow through his big, fat neck. His hand gripped the chair and swung it closer towards his desk as he plumped down into it, picking at his nose a bit before scanning the table's current contents in case he had paperwork to do. Well, if he did, it could wait until tomorrow.

He pulled his finger from his nose and examined it a moment before his eyes drifted to the ground, and Baker spotted something most unusual.

"What the hell?" the overweight sergeant uttered to himself as he bent over and picked up the combat knife lying there on the coffee-stained rug. _How the hell did this get in here?_

It didn't look like a police-issue brand. The officers used pocket knives. This thing looked as though it could cut through a dinosaur's foot. Baker scanned it, partially admiring his reflection in the blade, and just shrugged his shoulders. _Guess it's mine, now._

Whenever something ended up being lost around the precinct, it usually ended up in Baker's hands in some way or another. Hell, his chair belonged to Captain Shamrock. Granted, Baker never really bothered to return whatever he found, considering he was always just too darn busy with paperwork and lunchtime to do so. He was a busy man, by God. Busy men needed food.

Baker somehow hefted himself up from the poor chair and stepped over to the closet. He didn't want another officer walking in and seeing the knife on his desk only to claim it for himself; this thing was his now whether its previous owner liked it or not. He rested his hand on the door handle and slung the big wooden thing open. "BILL! Where's that bag—"

The sergeant froze in mid-speech.

He slowly backed away, raising his hands into the air as he struggled for words with the dark .45 barrel taking up most of the inside of his mouth. Fang stepped out of the closet, giving the man the most hateful of glares possible. "Next time you touch something of mine, you _wash your hands _before doing so."

Baker couldn't have responded if he'd wanted to.

By then, Officer Bill had gotten Baker's lousy bagel -- with cream cheese -- and he stood outside the office's door, mumbling to himself. "Here's your food, sir."

He paused in confusion when no one responded. "Sir, I have your food. Are you in there?"

Still nothing. Bill grinned, evil feelings spreading through his nerves. "Well, gee, I guess you aren't. I suppose I'll just have to eat your tasty little bagel with cream cheese _for _you, although it sure wouldn't hurt your weight problem any, you big, fatass mound of beef! You're so darned fat, you make Free Willy look like a goldfish. Yeah, you heard what I said. I went there. By the way, tell your wife that the next time she walks past a window, make her duck under it so we don't lose four days of sunlight. You blue-skinned blowhard. If you want your bagel so damn bad, you can have it after it goes through my system and lands in the—"

Bill stopped, noticing a shadow next to his on the wall, and he turned slightly. "Uh. Hi, Sergeant Walls."

Fang shoved Baker against his desk, the gun barrel still stuck in the man's mouth. The combat knife fell from the sergeant's hand. "I think you owe me fourteen thousand dollars."

All he got was a very muffled response. Fang slowly – very slowly pulled the gun out of Baker's fly trap and stuck its tip up against the sergeant's right eye. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

"I _said,_" Baker groused, trying to concentrate on both the dark eyes under the brim of the brown outback hat and the bounty hunter's itchy trigger finger at once, "you can go to hell—"

Fang shoved the barrel deep into Baker's eye, and the sergeant stifled a yell. The bounty hunter's gaze tightened with ferocity. "I think you did not _hear me._ You give me that damn money or I'll blow your face out all over the wall and those lovely little pictures of your family."

"You can't," Baker stammered. "You'll have more than you can chew off after you. You'll have GUN agents and bounty hunters firing everything they've got at you. Cop killers aren't looked upon very well by the government, you little freak of nature."

Fang relaxed slightly, allowing some of the pressure on the sergeant's eye to ease for half a second. Then he pulled back and wacked the side of the gun directly into the man's jaw. Baker fell sideways, but kept his balance with the help of his desk. "I will tear you limb from limb until I have that damned money, you acidic horse spit. Do you not understand the predicament you're in? If you don't give me what I want, you will _die, _because I will _kill _you, and then you'll be _dead, _and I'll _be happy._"

Baker's breath sharpened. "You... you can't... do anything to me!"

**WHAM** went the gun against the sergeant's head again. Baker fell to his knees, gripping the fat by his face, forced to look up to the bounty hunter despite how the weasel-wolf was only a few feet tall.

"What makes you think we even have fourteen thousand? For all you know, we're broke!" Baker scowled menacingly. The pain in his head made his face pulsate.

"Is that why you're offering a three hundred thousand dollar reward for Claw the Mole?" Fang just glared down at him.

Baker blinked. "But, uh, that's the government offering that bounty! We, we just get the money from them, a-and... we don't have it!"

"You're just a gibbering prick trying to save his own ass. Start telling me the truth."

"I swear to God, I _am _telling you the truth!"

The bounty hunter stood there, a very blank expression on his face, but his tightened muscles clearly expressed the rage under his bristling fur. For a moment, he was the deadliest, most volatile-looking thing Baker had ever seen.

"If you don't give me fourteen thousand dollars within the next thirty seconds," Fang uttered quietly and slowly, "I'll take your wallet and use your identification to find your address. I will go directly to your home, break in, shoot your wife while she's making dinner and let her bleed to death, then I'll take these gloves off and strangle your miserable children with my bare hands. Then I'll fill up your bathtub and drown your pets, and after that, I will _burn your goddamned house down._ Only then will I come back here and set your police station ablaze with you and everyone else who works here locked inside it."

Baker stared into the bounty hunter's soulless eyes.

"Alright," Baker stuttered, swallowing hard, "alright."

The hunter's expression didn't change.

"You'll get your fourteen thousand." Baker still gazed up at the black-hearted hybrid.

An irate Fang hesitated, and suddenly, without warning, slung a steel-calved boot directly into the sergeant's mouth. Baker fell back into the front of the desk, gripping his face.

"You halfwit," Fang growled in disgust, pulling his foot back, "how _dare_ a mangy horse's ass like you lie to my face. You pitiable camel licker; you ever do something like that to me again, I'll tie your mother to the railroad tracks."

Wide-eyed, Baker nodded shakily, still covering the lower section of his face with his bloodied hands.

"Now quit bleeding all over yourself and get the money." Fang waved the gun towards the desk, glowering down at the man.

Not hesitating in the least, Baker scrambled up and hurried to the other side of the desk, fishing the key Fang had longed for out of a pocket on his uniform, and he quickly pulled open the bottom drawer after unlocking it. Fang stepped closer to keep an eye on what the underhanded bastard was doing – To make sure he didn't pull a gun out from the drawer or something only to get his head blown off. While Baker did that, Fang picked his combat knife up off the ground and shoved it into its own leather holster on his gunbelt.

"Here's your damn money," Baker grumbled, eventually fishing an envelope out of the drawer and holding it up towards the bounty hunter.

Fang just stared at him, already predicting what the envelope carried. "I _don't want a check!_"

Baker paused, then dropped it in defeat and again began rummaging through the drawer. Fang sighed under his breath, wishing the fat pig would hurry his ass up – The last thing he needed while being so close to achieving his objective was for a hungry pack of officers to walk in and see what was going on. Fang had never had a run-in with a SWAT team and he wasn't looking to get in one anywhere in the near future. "Hurry it up. The mail moves quicker than you."

"I can't go so fast with you pointing that thing at me," Baker muttered, sparing a glance to the .45 pistol in the bounty hunter's hand.

"Tough crap. Put a cork in it and move." Fang's nerves pulsated. He didn't want to be here any longer – He had a new bounty to go after, and he wanted to get started as soon as possible. Baker's current speed of one-and-a-half miles an hour while he sorted through the drawer wasn't helping things any.

Eventually, after Fang felt the guy would never find what he was looking for, Baker held up another envelope. "Here. Fourteen thousand dollars, in cash."

One eye narrowed as the bounty hunter stood there a moment before slowly sauntering up to Baker. A leather-gloved hand swung out and snatched the envelope out of the Sergeant's hand, and Fang stepped back, examining its contents, all the while keeping the gun pointed in Baker's direction. Sure enough, a horde of hundred-dollar bills sat in the envelope, just dying to be spent on all sorts of useless garbage he didn't need. "Fourteen thousand."

"Fourteen thousand," Baker repeated.

"What are you doing with this kind of money in your desk drawer?"

"I was _going _to buy a new car. I always pay with cash up-front, because you never know—"

"That's enough," Fang said, letting the sergeant know he was still very much in charge of this scene. Baker's breath stopped as he stood there.

The bounty hunter closed the envelope and shoved it onto his gunbelt, then raised the .45 to eye level, pointing its deadly tip directly at the space between Baker's eyes. "I think I've told you before not to tell anyone about our meetings."

Baker's pupils shifted to the ground. "Yes."

"I assume you're fairly aware of what will happen to you and your family if you utter a single word of this instance to _any_one." Fang's blank expression was terror itself.

The sergeant nodded. "Yes."

Fang stood there a moment longer, then spat directly into Baker's bloody face.

"You could use some cleaning up."

Baker successfully refrained from raising a hand to wipe the contents clean from his visage. Fang glared at him, and after the tense stare-off had gone on longer than he desired, he slowly stepped away from the desk and headed to the window.

With that, he was gone.

Baker watched him leave, only now picking a rag up off his already filthy desk and rubbing it against his face. It wasn't until a minute later that he managed to wipe off every speck of the blood and spit.

"Sergeant Baker," a voice uttered as the door opened. An officer stepped into the office, but stopped as soon as he saw the look on the sergeant's face. "Are you alright?"

Baker's muscles tightened. "Get me the phone number for Bountech."

The officer blinked. "Bountech? Why in blue blazes would you need—"

"_**GET ME THE FUCKING NUMBER!!**_" Baker's voice echoed throughout the entire station.

"Eep!" The officer rushed out the door.

"Oh!" Baker suddenly started, causing the very frightened officer to stop halfway out the doorway. "By the way."

Swallowing with difficulty, the officer turned slightly and looked over his shaking shoulder. "Uh, yes, sir?"

Baker's eyes narrowed. "Tell Bill to come in here, too."


	5. Call of the Hunt

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Five – Call of the Hunt--**

Money never looked so good.

It had been some time since Fang had really truly appreciated the value money brought about, but this whole deal with stupid old anorexic Sergeant Baker had really given him a brand new look whenever he glanced at a money sign. He smiled as he stood there in the middle of his apartment building, his thumb sifting through twenty of the hundred-plus hundred dollar bills as though it were a deck of cards. Good old ill-healthed Hemorrhoid the Hippo – He really was worth fifteen thousand dollars after all, despite how the bounty hunter had needed to sort of convince everyone else of this.

He frequently sipped at a soda as he repeatedly counted the money, admittedly somewhat anal about making sure Baker hadn't _again _stiffed him. He could spot counterfeit money right off the bat, as he'd dealt with two-faced crooks who tried to give him the cold shoulder in terms of cash settlement before, so he didn't really need to check for that. It was the amount of cash that usually troubled him when things went okay, if anything. One could never be too careful, regardless. Fang had never been exempt from this personal rule, and never would be, as far as he was concerned. The moment he let his guard down, he would likely end up dead – or worse, broke.

_Fourteen thousand, _he silently confirmed as he counted off the final bill. Baker certainly was a man of his word when he wanted to be, which was while Fang pulled at the man's tongue with a pair of tongs while threatening to kill his whole family. At least, he'd probably now done so, anyway. Fang pensively scanned the money, considering the consequences of his actions. Then he shook his head. He didn't give half a damn if Baker didn't get his car, or his whole family starved to death. They could use the weight loss anyway.

By now, he'd put all his equipment away and was now placing the cash in a small, foot-tall safe with a punch-pad locking system. He kept most of his dough, along with other random items of differentiating personal value, inside the fairly decent mechanism, as he was much too cautious to ever even think about leaving any such things around where others might get to them, despite how the apartment building was relatively safe from break-ins and theft itself. He'd long ago worked on putting bars on all the windows, and he had numerous other pleasant little safety installments to the point where the building had started to look – and work – like a bank. Most everything inside was safe from harm or larceny.

He trudged across the hall from his storage room where he kept all his weapons and equipment over to one of the many bedrooms in the building – This one housing his computer and such other technical devices. It wasn't long before he'd booted the old archaic hunk of machinery up to get it running, although its age was beginning to show, considering the hideously noisy hum the processor made. Just another of the many things he needed to spend money on. That and a new monitor – The one he was using was beginning to corrode or something, as its screen was always a dim green color.

While he waited for the machine to load up, the bounty hunter reviewed the wanted posters he'd plucked off the wall in Baker's office earlier that evening. Claw the Mole, Sombrero the Gila Monster, Dry Horn the Bison, even a couple of no-name insignificant crooks he'd keep an eye out for while tracking the mole and his gang for the sake of a little extra cash flow. Fang stared long and hard at their faces, already beginning the process of memorizing each and every one of their facial traits and general appearances. Since Claw, being the half-assed, retarded circus reject that only he could ever hope to be, wore a pair of the stupidest glasses Fang had _ever _seen in his entire life, the mole wouldn't be terribly hard to spot in a crowd when the time came to take him down. The same could be said for the wily little bastard, Sombrero, who supposedly never went anywhere without his white namesake hat and bandana that covered most of his face, but Dry Horn didn't really specialize in wearing mentally incompetent articles of clothing. The bison was threatening to hit five feet tall, though, and he would undoubtedly tower over anyone else like a skyscraper. He'd make for a beautiful case of target practice.

Fang rubbed his furry chin, staring into the hateful, soulless eyes of all of them. Their lovely little mug shots on the wanted posters were all combinations of sketches and eyewitness snapshots, since none of them had ever really been arrested. The bounty hunter sneered – That aspect of theirs wouldn't last long, unless all three of them wanted to go down in a blaze of glory. He'd readily grant their wishes if it came to that.

An extremely annoying beep radiated from the computer. "_Welcome to Windoze XD!"_

The greeting repeated three more times consecutively. Fang mumbled under his breath. He didn't know how to turn them off, and he likely wouldn't be able to if he knew how anyway, since the machine was so damned old. He grasped the rather unclean-looking mouse and double-clicked the internet icon sitting on the desktop.

"_Welcome to the internet!"_

Three more times. Fang ground his teeth.

Ten minutes later, he was finally finding the information he needed. Countless independent news agencies constantly kept up-to-date on the possible whereabouts of the most wanted criminals in the land, and he was already sorting through all the television news stations and newspapers he was aware of, trying to discover every possible inch of information about Claw the Mole available. With so much information at his disposal, it was only a matter of time before he had deduced some key spots around the world where the little bastard may have been. Of course he had other sources to go by when it came to finding bounties, but when the simplest thing worked, it worked. Thankfully, most of the locations remained on South Island, so he wouldn't have to worry about crossing any oceans, unless he were extremely unlucky that day.

From here, the nearest possible location was Sand Hill. Since most of the other leads were rather far out of his way, and since Claw enjoyed pulling jobs in Station Square, it was the most obvious place to check first. Besides, Fang had an accomplice working there – Not a friend, only a business associate he occasionally checked in with. He'd actually made a mental note to call up the fellow, and he'd likely end up spending some of his money while he did so. _Might as well check in with the guy and his wares now. See if he's updated his stock any._

He keyed in a web address, and within seconds, his eyes scanned the numerous visuals on the website he brought up. Photos of assorted armaments, equipment, and other little essentials for his line of work lay upon the site, with design names and other information lying beneath each picture. Naturally, no prices were listed, since some of the material was entirely outlawed. The associate definitely didn't need an internet service provider coming across that and having the authorities brought in.

Fang examined each of the items on the site and picked out a few he wouldn't mind owning. The radiation sensor stood out in particular; as his old one was busted, and a set of high-magnification binoculars that doubled as a digital camera would definitely be his. Unfortunately, he didn't see very many armaments he had much use for, besides perhaps the so-called "Big Honkin' Boomstick," although he could never afford _that, _let alone lift it.

He picked up his nearby cellular phone he kept by the computer and dialed in a particular number after hesitating a moment to try and remember what exactly it was. Unfortunately, it was a long-distance number, so he'd have to try and keep the impending conversation short, despite how he knew his associate enjoyed going on for extensive amounts of time if he didn't watch himself. Fang was in sort of a hurry, anyway – Although he was in reality going to set out for Sand Hill the following morning rather than that evening, since it was growing late. Not that the associate needed to know.

The ring tone kept on for a few seconds until a gruff voice answered on the other line. "Hullo?"

"Hey, ugly, it's me." Fang's eyes stayed on the technical specifications for the sensor and binoculars. "Looks to me like you're carryin' some stuff I want."

Immediately the associate knew what the bounty hunter was talking about, as they'd had these sorts of transactions before. "Oh, yeah? You got money?"

"Would I call you broke, you stupid idiot? Of course I have money." Fang frowned.

"Okay, fine." Thor the Gorilla's tone shifted to a sullen mutter. "How much money you _got?"_

Now the bounty hunter literally glared into the phone's receiver. "None of your goddamn _business, _how much I got. How much is that radiation sensor, along with those weird binoculars of yours?"

Hesitation broke the seams. "Six thousand."

"Alright," Fang uttered, "and you want that six grand up your ass or down your throat? It sure ain't going into your pocket."

"Hey, come on." Thor's strange voice provided far too much bass on Fang's end for comfort. "I've got to make a living somehow! Just like you."

"The only _living _you'll be making will be as worm-food if you don't lower that price, because I'll just come down there, kill you, and _take _that stuff for free." Even in average, everyday-conversation, Fang managed to sound like a bastard, and he knew it. That was only another fault he had no interest in perfecting. "You ought to act like a damn saint to me, since I'm bothering to actually pay."

Thor went silent again for a moment, readily knowing Fang to not be a fellow who lied often, if ever.

"Two thousand each," he eventually offered.

Fang snorted. "I won't give you more than fifteen hundred for the both of them together! Geez, and I thought _Rouge the Bat _was a lousy crook. You're a terrible salesman."

"_**WHAT!?**_" Thor blared, likely scaring whoever happened to be next to him in his home that secretly doubled as his shop. "Fifteen hundred dollars for the radiation sensor _AND _the binoculars? You crazy haggler! I can't sell them for that cheap – Do you know how much equipment to build either of those things costs!?"

"Well, it'll cost you your life when I come down there and take them tomorrow," Fang said bluntly.

Grumbling, muttering, and other such vulgarities ensued on the other line. Thor the Gorilla was likely standing there in his kitchen or something, spewing and spitting like a camel with a dental problem while steam poured out his tiny ears. Fang sat there in his little, uncomfortable chair, staring back at the computer monitor and the two pieces of equipment he was going to get his hands on whether Thor liked it or not. It took maybe five seconds for the gorilla to finally utter something, with a little trouble, at that. "Two thousand. Please."

Fang sneered, but the black market salesman continued before he could slam the phone down onto the hook. "I've got a wife now, you know that. I'm feedin' for two now."

"I don't care if you've got to feed her, your lover, and your thirteen illegitimate children. You'll get fifteen hundred, no more or less. Don't you start giving me a sob story about all your financial worries because not only do I have enough of my own, but quite frankly, I just don't give a crap about you or your wife or anybody else you might bitch to me about. Alright?"

Thor was no doubt seething steam now. "Fine. Fifteen hundred. But you don't call here no more, y'hear me?"

Fang's sneer grew into a smirk. "Whatever. You'll be calling me up in a month, begging for money."

"You don't _call here no more,_" Thor growled. "You understand? I can't do good business like that. You haggle and haggle, just like all them other crooks and bastards who get this number and ask for the biggest machine gun I got or somethin'. And you know what else? I've been getting a _lot _of calls from those _Bountech _guys, askin' who I been dealin with, who been callin' me. How do you think they'd like it if I told 'em I had the oh-so big-ass pleasure of dealing with _you?_"

"Then _somebody _will sic some GUN agents on your oh-so-big ass. Might not be me, but I'm sure _Bountech _wouldn't exactly be happy with you if you told them you've come in contact with me. That company and I aren't exactly on the best of terms. Never have been." Fang shadowed a quiet sigh well. Dealing with Thor had the tendency to grind the nerves around his brain.

"Oh yeah?" Thor challenged. "Maybe I'll do that anyway. Push my luck – See how you enjoy it."

Fang's expression faltered slightly, but only because he was tired of listening to Thor and dealing with him at the same time. "I'll be by your place tomorrow to pick that stuff up. Try and be up early, alright? Last time, I got there about around one in the afternoon and you were still in bed."

"Hey," the gorilla chuckled, "I'm a busy man. Busy men work the nights!"

Fang didn't want to know what that meant. "I'll be there tomorrow. Be ready."

"Sure – So why you need this stuff, anyway?" The gorilla sounded genuinely interested and confused at once.

Still smirking, the bounty hunter only uttered one line before hanging up in case he got into a deeper conversation with Thor than he really wanted. "You ought to know by now. The hunt calls."

* * *

The downtown precinct of the Station Square police force was still alive with activity, even so long after the incident involving Baker and Fang. Naturally, Baker was too chicken-assed to tell anyone on his staff about it, but he still managed to think up a vile way to get even with the dirty-scheming bounty hunter who had made a complete fool out of him. Thankfully, the folks he had contacted were had been in the close area at the time of his calls, so he needn't wait long for them. He only sat there in his oversized chair, staring out the window into the alley, and down towards the busy nighttime Station Square traffic.

He puffed at a cigarette as he waited for the arrivals. Baker had stopped smoking five years ago to try and cut back on his weight a bit; obviously it hadn't helped get him rid of an ounce. So, he'd very, very recently decided to take it up again. After all, his nerves could use the help, despite how it was truly only a hindrance on his already poor body. But he didn't care about his body at the moment – He had more important things to worry about right now. Hell, his weight almost didn't matter, since that damn bounty hunter had nearly put a hole in his face.

The little son of a bitch. Baker scowled, terribly desperate to wring the bounty hunter's scrawny neck with his bare hands.

Rocking back a bit, the Sergeant glanced at his watch, growing impatient, but before he could get up and bitch to Bill about their lack of timing, someone knocked on his door.

"Sergeant Baker," Officer Bill's rather upset voice uttered, considering the trouble he'd gotten himself into not long earlier, "someone is here to see you."

"Let him in, Bill." Baker got one last high out of the cigarette, and after flicking it out the still-open window, swiveled around in the chair.

The door swung open, and Bill held it for the arrival. Baker's eyes laid right on the newcomer, quickly realizing it was the second person he'd beckoned for after the incident with the bounty hunter had gone down. He was naturally a little less than intimidated, since the arrival was only perhaps three feet tall, much like others of his kind. Hell, Sonic the Hedgehog himself was only three or so feet tall himself, give or take a few inches. Baker didn't think he'd ever get used to dealing with these annoying little bastards. Not that he'd ever understand them, either, or he'd realize that they likely would never get used to dealing with or understand him, in the same aspect.

Jagged the Hyena leered at him after Bill closed the door.

Baker nodded firmly. "Greetings."

Jagged slurped noisily from the straw of a massive Thirstbuster he held. Baker sat and glared at the guy until he was finished.

"Alright," the hyena muttered in an _I wish I weren't here right now _tone, "why the hell did you call us down here?"

Baker grimaced. By _us, _Jagged meant the GUN agency as a whole, although he was the only agent who had showed up. It did help the sergeant stay a little more on his toes than he normally would have, though. "I've got a problem."

"Of course you have a damn problem," the hyena griped irritably, "or else you wouldn't have bothered us. Spit it out already."

"Uh," Baker stammered, suddenly realizing he had good reason to be on edge, especially since the hyena had that electric stun baton of his hanging off his gunbelt, "well, like I said on the phone to, you know, your agency's phone monkeys, I had a run-in with a rather unfriendly sort tonight."

The GUN agent narrowed an eye and cocked his gray-muzzled, black-eared head to one side. "Yeah, what _sort _of unfriendly sort?"

Only now did Baker consider the potential consequences of what he was doing. "Well, uh, er—"

"What the hell'd this guy do, rape you or something?"

"NO! He, uh—"

"_WHAT!?_" Jagged groused.

"Um, er—"

The hyena exhaled a long, deep breath. "I'm about to leave."

"Alright, alright." Baker leaned back in the overstuffed chair, trying to present a more noble appearance, one the furry little ass might have known to respect. Obviously it didn't work, as Jagged's already irritable expression didn't flinch in the least. "Have you ever heard of... _Nack the Weasel?_"

Jagged blinked. "His name is _Fang the Sniper_, retard."

"_**RETARD!?**_" Baker exploded. "You little insignificant, meat-snapping MONGREL! I'm Sergeant Bob Baker of the Station Square Police—"

"And _I'm _with the government, in this case GUN," the hyena uttered blankly. "If I'm not mistaken, which I **never **_**am**_, the agency has authority over you and your Deputy Barney Fifes. Cut to the chase; I don't got all damn day to stand here and listen to you spit and spew."

Seething, Baker grit his teeth and swallowed hard to calm himself down – something he wasn't terribly good at doing. "Nack the Weasel came into my office and _stole _from me."

"Oh, for crying out loud" Jagged complained, "he _stole _from you. Help! Police! You useless loser, have you forgotten you're wearing a _BADGE? _What the hell did he steal, your wallet? Is that why you called me down here? To get you your damned wallet back?"

"_**NO!**_" Baker blasted, growing upset with the bully, "he took a HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS from me! I need you to get it back!"

The agent's face deformed into an ugly, suspecting scowl. "A hundred thousand."

"That's right," the sergeant lied half-assedly. Not that he was the best liar ever, but how would the GUN agent ever know?

Jagged slurped again from his drink, still staring at the blowhard in front of him. "A _hundred thousand dollars._ This shithole has a hundred thousand dollars?"

"IT **HAD **A HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS! That little bastard took every CENT!"

The hyena's expression faltered. "You haven't even mentioned how much you're offering to pay ME! The _phone monkeys _should have told you I'd be expecting at least thirty thousand for this job. You know, to cover expenses."

Baker slammed his hand down onto the table. "_THIRTY THOUSAND!? _Are you _insane!?_ We don't have thirty thousand!"

"Well, then, I _guess _your fat ass is out of luck." Jagged shrugged his shoulders, raising his free hand into the air for emphasis. "GUN doesn't work for nickels and dimes, Officer Doughboy."

"B-But," the sergeant stuttered, clueless as to what to do, "we don't have that much anymore! He took it all! He took everything we had!"

The government-staffed hyena stood there a moment, staring the Sergeant down. If Baker hadn't been intimidated when the GUN agent had first entered the office, he was feeling the heat now. Trying to get anything done now was going to be an exercise in immense frustration. But by God, he was a police sergeant; he wouldn't let some Man in Black wannabe get his tie undone. Unfortunately, he was screwed, regardless. Now he had to drop even more cash if the agent got the money back from the weasel-wolf. Hell, the guy was basically doing this for his own gain – Not Baker's. Not that he wanted to even acknowledge that.

"I guess I could take a down payment or something," Jagged eventually uttered, stepping closer to the desk. "As early payment as I can get, anyway. 'Course, I'll be expecting more when I take care of the target."

Baker looked confused – until the hyena suddenly slung a hand out and whipped the Sergeant's wedding ring off his finger in one quick movement. Immediately Baker started to rise from his chair. "_**WHA—**_"

But he hushed when Jagged suddenly flung out his stun baton with the same hand and slapped it against Baker's shoulder, stopping the man halfway through his rise. The hyena gave him an intensely distasteful glower. "Shaddup, you worthless excuse for a pig. How dare you raise your tone to a GUN agent? You should be glad I don't shut this whole damn station down since you dragged me out here for almost nothin'."

Jagged clipped the baton back onto his belt. Baker's eye twitched repeatedly, his beard whiskers shivering. "You... dirty little flea condo! I—"

The door swung open noisily, creaks sounding off across the room like the ache of old bones.

"BILL!" the Sergeant screamed, veins pulsating in his throat, "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT!!"

Officer Bill didn't enter. Immediately Baker's face turned a tomato-red hue and he stared at his desk, feeling a wave of embarrassment flow through his body, picking at the reddened flesh where his wedding ring had just been a moment earlier.

Jagged's battle-scarred visage went blank for a moment, then discretely sour as he slowly turned around to stare at whoever had walked in the door now.

Smiley the Kangaroo let a hand rest on his gunbelt, that disturbing smirk of his plastered on his banana-furred face. The eyes under the brim of his hat centered directly back at Jagged the Hyena as the bounty hunter's two miserable lackeys, Shifty and Speedy, both stepped up beside the kangaroo to flank him. Smiley's pleasant smirk grew wider, if anything. "H'lo."

Jagged's head whirled towards Baker as he jerked a thumb towards the newcomers angrily. "Who are these jackasses? Don't tell me you hired these assclowns too."

The sergeant seemed rather reluctant to speak at first. "Yes, I've also hired the three of them to go after Nack the Weasel. I heard their services are relatively decent."

Smiley scoffed. "Decent? You can go out anywhere on the street – Pick someone, anyone and they're _decent _at what we do. He hired us because we're the _best_, of the _best, _of the _best, _of—"

"Why the _HELL _did you call me down here then!?" Jagged spat, pointing a long, intruding finger at Baker's ugly face before the Kangaroo boss could finish, although Smiley actually just kept talking.

"I want this little bastard caught, is _why!_ I figured the higher the people on his trail, the higher the chances of him being caught."

That sent the agent closer to the thin black line. "So you don't think I can catch him? Is that it? _Oh, _you're pissin' me off."

"... of the _best, _of the _best_," Smiley finished, smiling pleasantly.

"Of course I think you can catch him!" Baker countered. "I just want to be absolutely _sure!_"

That wasn't the right thing to say and Baker knew it. Jagged's eyes bulged, making him look like some kind of fly. "You want to be _sure? _I'm _absolutely sure _that you're about to get this wedding ring of yours shoved so far up your ass, your mom will complain about you going _punk _when she sees it sticking out your nose!"

"Now you hold on just a quick minute," Speedy the Kangaroo interrupted, glancing between the agent and their client, "I'm sure the guy is payin' even if you don't catch him. Which you won't."

"I am?" Baker stuttered.

_"I won't!?_" Jagged screeched.

"Well, hell," the gray-furred kangaroo remarked, a sour look appearing in his eyes as he stared at Baker, "he'd damn well better, bein' as he has the responsibility of being a _decent _client. Say, out of some crazy act of God or somethin', babyface here catches him first..."

Jagged would have frothed at the mouth if he knew how.

"... We'd walk back into this office empty-handed," Speedy continued, "but for all our hard work, we'd still get somethin'. _Right?_ I mean, we should be getting paid just for standing here in this smelly room of his. Our time is Bountech's time, Officer."

"Sergean—" Baker started to correct.

"He ain't no Officer," Shifty the Kangaroo gassed, "he's a Detective Inspector!"

_Slurp _went Jagged and his drink. Baker narrowed one eye at the absurdity of it all. "Uh, I'm a—"

Smiley smacked the other bounty hunter upside his bandana-adorned noggin. "Where do you get that? He's a General! He's fat like one."

The Sergeant stared at the lot of them. "It actually says right on my desk—"

"No way," Jagged cut in, "he can't be a General. Generals are only in the Red Cross. Haven't you ever read Beetle Bailey?"

Shifty winced, rubbing his noggin. "I thought that guy was in the Navy."

Baker sat there. "Ahem."

"Beetle Bailey was a firefighter, _stupid._" Smiley smacked the other kangaroo again. "Don't talk about things you don't know about."

"He could be a sergeant," Speedy guessed.

"A sergeant?" his boss fussed. "That's _stupid_. You're _stupid_."

"Your _FACE _is stupid."

"Your _MOM _is stupid."

"Your..." Speedy struggled a moment. "Your--... _friggin'—damn it! _Your _ASS _is... stupid. _FUCK!"_

Smiley was incredulous.

"What? This ain't church. I can say it."

"_Damn, _you're stupid."

Baker sighed.

"Sarge was fat in Beetle Bailey," Shifty commented. "Wasn't he? He ate a lot, too. Do you eat a lot?"

"Of course he eats a lot," Jagged blabbered, "look at him! How does he get his fat ass out of that chair? I'll bet he had to have his wedding at Sea World so he could be with family."

"I like Sea World." Shifty smiled.

"_**ENOUGH,**_" Baker blared, silencing the entire precinct. "In case you haven't noticed, the Station Square police department has given all of you a job to do. I will see what I can do about money if you somehow can't catch him. And you damn well better, or you're just wasting my damned time, and no one wastes, the, er, time of--"

He had started to toss that last threat on there to try and instill some fear into the four vile cretins, but it backfired big-time. All four of their expressions went completely black -- even Smiley's, but his deadly gaze still managed to include that grin of his. Baker suddenly felt very exposed, as though he were seriously about to get his behind torn apart. "I guess."

Speedy the Kangaroo brushed past Jagged and thrust a finger in Baker's big fat face. "_You _damn well better get us some cash inflow whether we get him or not, because to be blunt, we'll _kill_ you in front of your own _momma_ if you don't. You don't waste our goddamn time and get away with it, you fuzzball."

Shifty cackled with delight. "Yeah! What he said!"

Smiley slammed his foot down onto Shifty's, causing the other kangaroo to screech like a little girl.

"You can't threaten me," Baker challenged, somehow staring the four of them down. It was difficult, considering all the threats he'd gone through that day, but even he had limits. "I'm a police sergeant. You—"

"I _**TOLD YOU!**_" Speedy whirled around and threw his arms into the air.

When he did this he accidentally slapped Jagged's drink out of his hand. The hyena freaked. "YOU SON OF A BITCH. I'LL KILL YOU."

"Hey, stupid, you said he was a Corporal!" Smiley remarked to his underling. "_Stupid!"_

"_YOUR ASS IS STUPID! GODDAMN IT ALL TO HELL!"_

Baker slammed his fists down onto the desk for the second time in one minute. "_GET OUT! _I swear, just, all of you hurry up and leave! You know what you have to do, so get to it before I have you all _thrown _out!"

Jagged spat onto the floor with no regard to the fact it belonged to a police station and placed a gray-gloved hand on his own gunbelt, letting his thumb barely touch the .45 semiautomatic pistol in the holster for comfort. He gave the Kangaroos a most hideous look. "Alright. You three dumbasses had better just stay outta my way when we're out there in the battlefield against this little guy. I don't need no damn wannabes cramping my style."

Smiley crossed his arms, his poisonous smirk only growing larger as he leered at the hyena. "I suppose we ought to say the same to you, huh? _You had better just stay out of our way when we're out there on the battlefield against this guy, something something whatever crap about style._ How was that?"

"Not very good," Shifty blurted in reference towards his boss' horrendous imitation of Jagged's bizarre tone of voice.

"Ah, what do you know? You don't know nothin'. So stop actin' like you do."

Baker's ears turned a very red hue. "I think you did not _hear me, _I said, GET OUT OF MY OFFICE THIS _INSTANT._"

Jagged's gaze bore into the sergeant's, a meaner look on his face than Baker ever could have hoped to drudge up. "What did I tell you about screaming at me?"

Baker was silent.

"Yeah, that's right, fatass. You'd look pretty ugly with a big ugly scar across that fat mug of yours. Remember to respect your superiors."

That said, Jagged the Hyena turned and stepped past the three bounty hunters, successfully ignoring Smiley when the kangaroo tipped his hat, and in what wasn't short enough time for Baker, he was out the door. Smiley stood there a moment longer, resting his gloved hands behind his head while the other two kangaroos each went to stand at his sides.

"Say, fatso," he uttered to the already flabbergasted Sergeant, "what's our down payment for this job, anyway?"

Baker sat a moment, and just sighed.


	6. Tumbleweed

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Six – Tumbleweed--**

It was hot, humid, and damn ugly.

Sand Hill wasn't a place where Fang would ever spend a honeymoon, but he had to be here, regardless. With the likelihood that Claw the Mole was somewhere in the vicinity, he couldn't very well just go anywhere looking to find the guy – Putting off the inevitable wouldn't help. As wretched a place as it was, with its empty, barren desert scenery, occasional peak, and sandstorms, Fang was rather unimpressed with the mole's apparent decision to use this as a hideout. The same could be said for that deadbeat mongrel, Thor the Gorilla, who had indeed still been asleep in bed when Fang had arrived at the old, crappy two-room house of his in the middle of nowhere.

The violet-furred bounty hunter sat there on the _Marvelous Queen, _making good use of the miniscule air conditioning system it was equipped with as he gazed across the horizon through the high-tech binoculars he'd just recently gotten from the gorilla. Nothing but sand and rock formations met his sight, prompting a groan from his lips. He'd already been out here since he'd gotten out of bed, as he'd left around two in the morning. He'd really hoped to be at the desert by the time the sun came up so he wouldn't have to deal with the heat as much as he'd predicted, but that idiot gorilla had taken almost fifteen minutes to get him the merchandise Fang needed to buy.

So here it was, somewhere in the vicinity of ten in the morning, and he'd been swooping across the sand ever since he'd left Thor's. Fang sneered, annoyed with the lack of progress he was making. Time was money to him, and if he ran out of time, he ran out of money. At least Thor had given him a little bit of information: Apparently, there was a small, run-down shack of a house somewhere far north of the gorilla's cruddy wooden home, nestled somewhere between a set of mountains. A couple of weirdoes had come over to his place from there, demanding weapons and money, but Thor, being the big, crazy bully that he was, along with being a simpleminded nitwit, wouldn't have any of it, promptly kicking them out afterwards.

Sand Hill didn't have much in the way of towns, or civilization in general, for that matter – Most of the housing out here was all alone. Fang would likely find the shack in due time, considering he had a rather obvious _nack _for that sort of thing. _Man, I hate that damn name._

Granted, he'd only been searching for a little while, but still, he was already getting rather fed up with this pursuit. Whether or not he was successful for now fully depended on Thor's honesty. Fang didn't particularly enjoy having to depend on anyone other than himself, but it had to be done often times for him to succeed at his occupation. He lowered the binoculars, his face scrunching up with slight aggravation as he continued to stare off towards the monotonous sand dunes and plentiful pillars of rock teetering across the horizon inconspicuously. He wasn't getting anywhere, despite the gorilla's information, and just sitting here wasn't helping.

He placed the binoculars in a random compartment on the _Queen_ and fired the powerful twin engines back to life, as they weren't required to run the airbike's air conditioning system. With a nudge of the throttle, the machine picked up off the ground and shot out across the desert sand, kicking dirt and dust into the air in its wake.

Past the rocky pillars he flew, searching for anything that stood out in particular. The usual dust devils threatened to get in his way every so often, and he'd have to change course slightly to keep from getting slung off-course further than he wanted by them. Sand Hill annoyed Fang, and he silently wished he could hurry up and just get this bounty over with. The sooner he found Claw the Mole's three hundred thousand dollar ass, the better off he'd be.

Speeding through the wind and past the rock pillars, it was only a matter of time before he came across the first sign of life – An empty campsite. Fang slowed the _Queen _down and stared at the site to give it a fairly routine inspection, and immediately found more than he wanted to discover. Two sets of bones about his size adorned the ground, shells painted stark white by the desert sun's rays. Both the repugnant-looking skeletons were nestled fairly close to revolvers, but they were also lying beside one another, telling the bounty hunter that they hadn't been responsible for their own murders. He quickly came to the conclusion that they'd been ambushed long ago, and if Claw and his gang were the ones who had performed this vile act, they must have been based here for a long time.

Turning his nose up at the sight, he throttled the airbike again and sped away, hoping his path would lead him to his desired destination soon enough.

He continued on past the bland desert scene. It was an ultimately boring experience, but Fang bargained that the action of the job had to have a more dull side. Yin-Yang, he supposed – It certainly was that way for everything, not excluding himself. He knew he should have welcomed the change of pace, but still, he'd much rather get this over with sooner, even if it meant taking the action side right now. It would be a little bit easier on his nerves that way, anyway. Yes, the sooner he caught Claw, the better, and the sooner he became richer because of that, the better off he and a whole lot of other people would be.

It was around noon by the time he slowed the bike down to let the engines cool off a little bit. Since the airbike could travel hundreds of miles an hour, essentially being a miniature fighter jet, he always had to be extra careful of its well-being, and this damned desert heat wasn't doing it any good. The bright Sand Hill sun shone down upon he and the endless desert life, prompting a grating sneer from the bounty hunter towards it as he began to grow flabbergasted at this point. Bored out of his mind by the monotony of the scenery and his lack of progress, he switched on the radio, letting it blast nearly full volume to hear it above the hideous whine of the _Queen_'s twin engines.

As he turned it on, he reached down and plucked out a bottle of water, gulping the majority of the small plastic container's contents in one swig. _It's just too damn hot out here._

"—_break-in at a Station Square police department last night, where the suspect smashed open one of the windows and stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from a Sergeant's office. No injuries were reported in the fiasco. The department had this to say._"

Fang blinked, and listened closer, suddenly realizing what the news report was talking about. _Oh Lord, what the hell?_

"_Sergeant B. Baker of the S.S.P.D. told reporters that the department has the situation well under control, and they have dispatched numerous authoritative figures to catch the criminal. Pending a full report, we asked Sergeant Baker of the crook's identity, but he declined to answer, feeling for the safety of the public._"

The bounty hunter's eyes widened as his ears twitched violently, his attention now fully on the report and Trisha Dortmund's pleasant, ignorant little voice that had the ability to grind against his nerves ever so well. _Oh, he so did not. Hell no, he did not._

He slowed the bike to a stop to listen to the report, turning its volume down slightly as the engines quieted. "_GUN has already addressed the issue and has expressed their own concerns for public safety, also taking the initiative to dispatch authorities to handle the case. They also declined to comment, but much like their police counterparts, they assure the public that the crook will be taken care of at once. Now let's head over to our fun-tastic weather report! Take it away, Jim--_"

Gritting his teeth and shutting the radio off, Fang already knew where this was headed. _Authority figures_, his ass. He hurled the water bottle off into the sand angrily. "DAMN IT!"

He should have figured Baker would talk. This was the last damn thing he needed now; a bunch of yahoo wannabes getting brave and trying to track him down, only to get shot to death. What a waste of bullets, and all over fourteen thousand that Baker wanted to stiff him out of. Sure, Hemorrhoid the Hippo may not have been worth fifteen thousand, nor a piece of crap, for that matter, but still, when someone made a deal, they didn't pull out of it. That was the sign of a bad businessman, and Baker was a terrible one in all aspects.

He sighed and stared into the sky. This was going to get lovely. Very freakin' lovely.

Placing a hand against his forehead, letting his outback hat rise slightly, he felt an equally troubling headache start to come on, but then, before it could worsen, he glanced off to his right and spied something off in the distance, nestled between a set of the typical rocky pillars he'd come to loathe – An old, wooden shack, with multiple, busted-up cars and one or two airbikes out front, not unlike Fang's. It had definitely seen better days. It didn't appear to have any glass in the windows, it had no visible roof – Fang bargained it was flat with wood – and it looked as though it would fall apart any minute.

And Fang knew that to some, it would have looked like a million-dollar dream home. Narrowing a single eagle eye, he gunned the _Marvelous Queen_'s engines and whipped the bike in its direction, and almost before he himself knew it, he was speeding off in its direction, the radio report now nothing but a lost memory.

* * *

Sombrero the Gila Monster stared directly up at his enormous companion from under the brim of his namesake hat, the sun boring in through the entirely-open windows, heating the whole room to help and accompany the already tense atmosphere between the two robbers. Dry Horn the Bison looked considerably more dangerous when he was ruffled by something, and the smaller, scaly bandit certainly was intimidated, but he wasn't going to let the big bully push him around like an insignificant yes-man. Sombrero wouldn't have any of it – despite how he was definitely getting himself into thick water when going against the bison, much like anyone else.

"I said, you go get your_ own_ damn soda," the crazy little outlaw challenged.

It was a more-than-familiar scene – The boss would leave, providing a huge opportunity for Dry Horn to boss the gila monster around as though he were some sort of miserable lackey. It happened a bit too often, and when it _did _happen, the bison made absolutely sure to take full advantage of the situation, forcing the lizard outlaw to perform such monotonous, ridiculous duties as getting him food, money, a woman, or having his disgusting feet rubbed. Sombrero rarely did any of it, in particular the very latter, and only at least performed the easier tasks if Dry Horn went so far as to threaten his life. Unfortunately, now was one of those times.

The bison just glowered down at him. "I'm second-in-command of this outfit. You gotta do as I say while the boss is out."

Sombrero's expression sagged and soured at the same time. "No one made your sissy ass second-in-command. Who the hell died and made you the boss all of a sudden? You fat, ugly, smelly excuse for a moo cow. C'mon, moo for me."

"Get your stupid-lookin' butt in that kitchen and get me one before I throw you in there with one hand." Dry Horn cracked his knuckles.

Sombrero's intimidation gave way, feeling his wrath peak. He dropped his gloved hand rest near the blue-finished pistol nesting in his gunbelt's holster as his mouth's expression turned upside down under the white bandana covering his snout. "Why doesn't _your_ big, fat, stupid-lookin' butt get in there and get it yerself? You take me for some kinda wuss? You want a hole through that ugly face of yours? Just gimme the word."

"_My _face is ugly?" Dry Horn scoffed. "Yours is so damn ugly, you gotta hide it behind that damn bandana all the time. Now shut up and get me a soda, you little bitch, and get some cheese with your whine if you ain't gonna quit it. I'm getting sick of listening to it."

"I s_wear_ to _God,"_ the lizard garbled angrily, thrusting a finger up at the colossal bozo, "if you tell me to do that _one more damn time,_ I'll take this gun and put so many bullets up your colon, you'll be crapping lead for a week."

"Damn it, just do it already!" The bison swung out and grabbed Sombrero's arm, thrusting him directly into the old shack's beat-up kitchen, if it could have been called that. "And fix me somethin' to eat while you're in there! What a baby."

Sombrero didn't have much of a choice, being slung around like a rag doll and all by a guy about forty-seven times his size. The emergency landing his ass made on the kitchen's dirty floor didn't help his ego much, nor this stupid predicament he was in. _Fine, you dirty, ugly crab. I'll fix you something. Let's see how you like puking outside all day afterwards._

Standing, the gila monster stumbled over to a few random cupboards and drawers, fishing out whatever poison he'd fix his crazy partner. "Low-down, no-good, frickin', gall-dang, miserable..."

Dry Horn stood there, listening to Sombrero bitch for a bit, then turned his furry, brown head towards the unsightly door that looked like it was about to fall off the hinges, his gaze quickly switching to the open window. One of Sand Hill's notorious dust storms was starting, what with all the wind and sand being blown around outside. It made Dry Horn think a moment as he prodded the grip of his shotgun with his fingers, the vile weapon hanging from a rope on his multiple belts – a makeshift holster that was the laughing stock of the guy currently occupying the kitchen against his will. "Hey, what time is it?"

Hesitating at first, as though debating whether or not to grace the asshole with an aswer, Sombrero stopped whatever he was doing for a moment. "Well, my stupid Burger Queen _Spider-Dude 3 _watch has stopped already, so I don't know."

"That's funny," the bison remarked. "The boss shoulda been back by now. Where d'ya think he is?"

"I _don't know_," came the grumble from the kitchen, the smaller, easily-angered outlaw still muttering and spewing.

"Well, damn," Dry Horn continued, staring outside further, "it's not like it's a long trip. Claw's not a fellow who takes a long time with stuff, where do you think—"

"I— **DON'T**—_** KNOW!!**_" Sombrero screamed.

Silence coiled the scene. Dry Horn mumbled.

The bison thrust a glare towards the kitchen moments later, suspecting the lizard wouldn't fix him the greatest meal ever. The last time Sombrero made dinner for the gang, Claw had gotten four cases of the flu, Dry Horn had to have his stomach pumped, and the gila monster had woken up somewhere in Green Hill talking to a tree. "Hurry the hell up in there."

He cast his scruffy noggin's view back towards the door when he heard a bizarre, almost out-of-place creak that caught him a bit off-guard at first, though he soon realized he had little to fear. The now growing wind had blown it open, which wasn't too hard a feat, as the door threatened to nearly fall over any moment anyway, assistance or none. Dry Horn crossed his huge, tree-sized arms, prodding his mind slightly with slight hope that the boss wouldn't come back, as it would make him first in command of the gang, although they'd have to find a decent, idiotic replacement for the mole. Letting a grin encompass his face at the thought, he chuckled to himself as he shot a half-narrowed eye towards the kitchen.

Sombrero tossed everything he could find in the cupboards and drawers into the hideous mixture he was making, singing to himself all the while as though he were on a syndicated cooking show. "_Thi-i-i-is is the ni-i-i-i-ight, it's a byo-o-o-o-o-otiful ni-i-i-i-ight..._"

The bison rolled his eyes and looked back to the door. Dry Horn found it bizarre. Despite his lack of personal interest in whether or not the boss came back, it still made him ultimately curious. Claw had left at least thirty minutes earlier, but he hadn't taken his airbike, as the water well was just over a nearby sandy hill, so that probably explained most of the time delay. He'd just go on anyway, despite the strange feeling he now had. Claw would be back soon. If not, oh well. Shrugging his enormous, powerful shoulders, Dry Horn looked back towards the kitchen, turning his black nose up to try and keep some of the sand out of it. "After you're done with that, run on over to that gorilla guy's place and take his TV guide, okay? I heard Paris the Haliotis is on the cover this week."

"Why do _I _have to go?" the irritated tone from the kitchen queried. "I went last time."

"Because I said so."

"You're not the damn boss yet. Quit bein' a retard."

Dry Horn began to heavily weigh the consequences of using Sombrero's namesake headwear for target practice. "Just do it and stop whining. I like Paris."

"What the hell is a Haliotis, anyway? You've got some weird tastes, you sick freak. Why can't you be normal, and have a crush on one of these millions of poorly-designed female Sonic look-a-likes popping up all over the place these days?"

"I don't know, but I think—"

He heard something rolling across the old wooden floor, and he glanced down to see what it was.

Like a sun going supernova, the explosion threatened to permanently blind anything in the room, whether a bug or a bison, but it was the blast itself that was the danger, as though the world was ending right where he stood. Dry Horn flew back into a set of stolen furniture, crashing through it all in the process and leaving him on the ground.

The entire room rumbled with the aftercourse of the frag grenade's effects, sending chills for whatever remained to keep Dry Horn's body company.

Sombrero the Gila Monster rushed in from the kitchen, at first staring at the not-so-discrete crater in the middle of their living room, then quickly and half-assedly turning his attention to the bloodied gang member lying in a most awkward position.

Initially, he was struck a little dumbfounded. It occurred to him that whatever might have caused Dry Horn's death could very well go for him next like the sick bastard it was, but Sombrero, being the idiot he was, didn't pay the potential danger any heed. All he focused on was the repugnant form lying there, frozen like a statue. Narrowing his wild eyes, the gun-slinging lizard slowly stepped over to his dead partner, staring down at the mess as he steadily approached.

He stopped, gazing down at the bison. What remained was scrunched against the wall, arms hanging strangely from his sides as his shotgun sat in his lap, as though still begging to be used for terror against the unsuspecting bastard who had brought down fire upon its owner. The sight almost made Sombrero cringe at first, but he still only gazed down at his comrade. His disgusting, irritating, slothful, lazy, sorry, ultimately dead son of a bitch-ass comrade who he hated with all his passion. Sombrero _hated_ Dry Horn. He had wished for his death ever since he'd met him, and he hoped to heaven the pathetic bastard was in rotting somewhere in the underworld.

"Damn, _buddy_," he muttered quietly, "you got screwed up. Screwed up bad. What, you drop one of those damn grenades you were playin' with earlier today?"

There was no response.

"You look like what I ate the other night. And also what came out the same night."

Again, he didn't receive a response. Sombrero glared down at the beast, feeling his wrath begin to seep out of his body as he began to take his unhinged frustration out on his once-partner.

"Well, it serves ya right, ya miserable piece of garbage." Sombrero's vile tone was laced with wrath. "Serves you 'n' yer ten-dollar mother damned right. You like kickin' people around? Here's yer damn soda."

Sombrero held up the bandana over his face and fired a pleasant wad of saliva right down onto Dry Horn's makeshift grave. Not that Dry Horn likely cared anymore. "How's it feel to get screwed with for a change, you ass? Oh, I'm sorry, yer _dead. _Too bad. I hope you die in the afterlife too, you mangy son of a—"

The audible creak of a wooden floor panel reverberated through his ears like a funeral bell.

Sombrero's crazy, bloodshot eyes froze. Only staring at the sight a moment longer, the bandit slowly – _very_ slowly turned around, eventually fully facing the door as his awful posture straightened significantly.

Fang the Sniper looked right back at him, the bounty hunter's hands resting comfortably on his gunbelt. A sun glint echoed off the holstered .45 semiautomatic, sending a shine across the room onto the lizard's head.

Focusing his own sight directly into the violet-furred weasel-wolf's passionless eyes, Sombrero became more than aware of the danger present. His gimlet stare hardened, the brim of the white sombrero darkening his visage. Motionless, Fang only returned the gaze, expressionless, for his part, but he stared at the lizard with a defining look of intent in his eyes.

They only stood there, watching one another, fifteen feet apart.

Carefully and slowly, as to not send things over the brink prematurely, the gila monster's gloved hand eased down towards the black semiautomatic in his own gunbelt's holster. Carefully, it stopped directly next to the deadly pistol's grip, the bandito's gaze still centered partially on the bounty hunter's black eyes and the rival quick-draw arm, watching for any movement at all.

Fang was already performing the same motion, smoothly and silently. Without an ounce of emotion, the weasel-wolf's own glove carefully hung in the air, coming to rest not half an inch from his own weapon's handle, the glint still shining magnificently off the .45. The brown brim of the outback hat the bounty hunter wore covered all but a small section of his blank eyes, the small slice of white still somehow showing the pupil – which was centered intensely on Sombrero's. The wind from outside shook what excess fur the bounty hunter had, while occasionally shooting sand in on the floor. It was an unnerving sight.

Sombrero felt a poisonous high run through his nerves, one that made his breathing a little uneasier but his blood run hotter. The gila monster was himself known for being particular fast when it came to dropping bodies, but in this day and age, it was difficult to find people who would actually accept such a challenge amongst themselves. Only people such as he and a select few others would bother deciding to let things be decided by finding out who was the quickest with a gun – just like the old times, but while he had an enormous ego when it came to such a thing, he'd never taken on anybody like _Nack the Weasel. _Of course he was aware that he was an excellent gunslinger, but he was unsure of the extent that it could have been, and it frustrated him somewhat.

He'd heard of him before, though. Fang was regarded as the most notorious bounty hunter in the world, and he'd obviously come here not by his own sweet time but by someone else's. He must have been working for money. But the last he'd heard, Sombrero figured he himself was only worth maybe five thousand bucks to society. A fellow like Fang couldn't possibly want to bother with so-called small fry like himself, but if he had been getting desperate as of late, perhaps the gila monster was in a bind. Sombrero's eyes darkened at the thought, but unlike many of Fang's targets, he was not a cowardly wimp on the run for some little crime no one cared about. The vile outlaw was more than acquainted with gunplay and he wouldn't go down without a fight.

The only audience to the scene were the Sand Hill flies and mosquitoes as they hovered in and circled around the remote mess like a hungry swarm of vultures.

The gila monster stretched his fingers, scanning Fang's all the while. The bounty hunter still hadn't moved a single centimeter from his previous position, and the fact that he wasn't making small-talk made Sombrero a little off balance. So much for bringing them in alive -- Fang had just dealt with Dry Horn in the only manner he'd wanted, and was looking to do the same to _him_ in cold blood. The bounty hunter seemed locked in his stance, as though frozen like a block of ice. He hadn't even blinked since first stopping in the shack.

Sand whipped in through the wide, glassless windows and across the room, but the scaled outlaw only concentrated on the figure standing no more than fifteen feet away. Sombrero narrowed his bloodshot eyes to try and sway the bounty hunter's grit. Fang's expression didn't change in the very least.

His expression turning black, the gila monster felt his ferocity burn to life. His breath lessened slightly.

Fang only stood there, the hot sun beating against his back. The seconds ticked away, lasting what seemed like hours.

It came and went like the wind. Sombrero's hand grasped the black gun's grip and brought it up out of the holster in a flash, his posture dropping as he tried to make himself a more wily target hit in case the bounty hunter got off a shot at the same time. His arm rose in a heartbeat and his finger gripped the trigger.

The shot blasted into the room like a bolt of lightning. The full-metal-jacket round smashed directly across the gila monster's gunside shoulder, and he went spinning around in a wild three-sixty as he was sent flying back into the air a few feet, the bandito eventually crashing onto the dirty wooden floor in a heap next to the filthy mess that was Dry Horn the Bison. The black pistol – along with the namesake sombrero – had gone flailing from his person somewhere in the middle of it. "**AGGH!"**

Fang allowed the wind to carry the smoky gunpowder away, then spun the pistol on his finger a moment, letting it slip into its respective holster once again.

"Urgh!" Sombrero thrashed about on the shack's bloodied floor, eyes shut tight, a glove grasping the wound as he ground his carnivorous snappers under the bandana. "_DAMN_IT! DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN _DAMN!_ YOU _BASTARD!_ I'LL FUCKING _KILL YOU!!_ ARGH, I SWEAR TO GOD—"

Before he could even react, he received a face full of leather. Fang let the kick subside, drawing his booted foot back. "Nice try."

Sombrero just growled and spat in agony, tongue and nerves lashing in wrath.

The bounty hunter suddenly bent and coiled his hand around the scaly outlaw's neck, putting a stop to the crybaby's tantrum. "Where's your boss?"

"I don't," the gila monster choked, throat gurgling, "I don't know!"

Fang didn't have time for games. He pulled the .45 back out of the holster and jammed it smack in the space between Sombrero's eyes. "I SAID, _WHERE'S YOUR BOSS!?_"

"I DON'T KNOW!" the lizard screeched. "I'm telling you, I DON'T KNOW! He was supposed to be here by now, but he's not! He was just goin' off to get some water! I swear to GOD! DON'T SHOOT AGAIN!"

"Don't yell at me, you _piece of scum!_" Fang pounded the gun into the side of the already wounded outlaw's face, easily doing more damage than necessary. "I'll say one more time, _where's your boss?_"

Sombrero only lay there, his breathing still constricted by the glove wrapped around his neck, his thoughts racing at a mile a minute thanks to the wound he had and the rising probability of a slightly more fatal one being brought to him in the next few moments. "I don't... I dunno, I, I... I—"

"You dirty liar, don't you lie to me." Fang's grip on the gun intensified.

The gila monster's green face was by then even whiter than the bandana hiding most of it. "I'm... telling… the truth..."

Glowering down at his prey, the bounty hunter sneered and released the lizard's neck, rising fully. "You'd damn well better be."

Suddenly, without warning, a high-pitched shriek shot off across the desert – a machine. Fang immediately recognized the unmistakable sound of an aerobike engine, as they sounded similar to those of high-powered indy cars, but it wasn't his own, as the _Marvelous Queen _was equipped with two. He stepped away from Sombrero and gawked outside.

"I," Sombrero whimpered, "I want my mommy."

Fang could already tell from the heavy dust build-up, despite the dust storm, that something had taken off as fast as it could from just outside the shack. The bounty rushed over to the window and gazed outside, and almost instantly spotted an airbike speeding off in the distance at hundreds of miles an hour, the outline of a short, fat pilot quickly recognizable.

His eyes dilated, and he sped right back over to Sombrero, pointing the gun directly at his head again. "WHERE THE HELL IS HE GOING!?"

"How the hell should I know!?" Sombrero spat, using up whatever dignity he had left.

"He's your damned boss, you oughta know!" It wasn't much of a request – Just a statement. Fang holstered the gun a second time and sped outside as quickly as he could, despite the protest his legs brought about, and he hurried over to the _Marvelous Queen_, quickly starting up its powerful twin engines before he was even fully on the aerobike's seat. It was only a second before the bike was ready to blast off in pursuit of who he already knew was the little bastard who he'd come here for.

But Fang stopped suddenly; his breathing ceased.

He glanced over his shoulder, not suspecting the obvious presence of a wounded Sombrero and his dead ally, but of something else.

His dark eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat. Choosing to ignore the odd feeling, the bounty hunter whipped the airbike around, and, throttling it as hard as he could, he thundered off away from the shack, in pursuit of three hundred thousand dollars on the run.


	7. Bad Men in the Bad Lands

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Seven – Bad Men in the Bad Lands--**

Speedy the Kangaroo's nostrils still flared upon recollection of Fang the Sniper's humiliating commentary at his expense. He had not wanted to even run into the little bastard in the first place, and to suffer his opinions made the coincidental conversation all the more irritating. But Smiley hadn't been able to keep from rubbing the weasel-wolf's nose into the dirt, and they had almost sent themselves into an out-of-hand situation. He was unable to object to Smiley's way of doing things, but it could get them into some spots, on occasion, and despite how they always found ways out of it, Speedy would have preferred to have the unending realization that Fang the Sniper was still alive gone and out of his mind. That was the price he paid for being a cronie, though, and he accepted it.

But he did not enjoy prissy-footing around, either, and he made that clear to his boss as the three bounty hunters sat on their aerobikes smack in the middle of dusty, dirty, ugly, miserable Sand Hill. They were situated on a rise that gave them a good look at the horizon, along with anything that might have been running around collecting bounties down there. "I don't like wasting time. We know where the little sonofawhore is and what he's doing. We should just take him down now while he's focused on something else."

Smiley the Kangaroo finished guzzling the contents of a water bottle and absent-mindedly tossed it into the sands, smiling at his underling pleasantly. "Easy, sleazy. We stick to the plan."

"Well, the plan is a sodding waste of time."

Smiley's grin did not waver, but he quietly stared at his cohort until the other kangaroo began to fidget under his gaze.

"Fine." Speedy turned his attention to the distance somberly.

"That's right." Smiley tucked his hat lower over his brow. "I don't give a flippin' hoot how much you dislike our purple buddy. You can't catch someone like him off-guard. You just gotta wait until you can get him in a position that results in the least amount of your boys getting holes sprung in 'em, that's all. That's what we've gotta do, so hold on to your butts until then."

Shifty wasn't so certain about that. "But he's only carryin' that little pea-shooter, boss. How deadly can he be when we've got 'im so outgunned?"

"Any gun will kill you just as dead in the hands of that guy. 'Sides, he probably has other little _surprises _on him." Smiley gestured down across the sandy formations to a sorry-looking shack nestled between a set of peaks. "You can be damned-for-sure certain he made somebody feel pretty lousy when he went in there. I wonder if he left either of Claw's goons alive?"

The bandana-adorned kangaroo cast his attention down at the shack. Some of the side wooden paneling had been blown out from the frag grenade that Fang had utilized not long earlier, but it was too difficult to see anything inside from their angle and distance. "How do ya know they were even in there?"

"'Cause they were _buddies, _Shifty. And buddies stick together. Just like us, eh?"

"Oh." Shifty picked at his yellow teeth, still not understanding, though he took the time to contemplate something. "Y'think we should go check on 'em? Maybe they can give us a hand."

Smiley's eyes rolled. "See, this is why I'm the boss. Just don't ask. A'right? Let me do all the thinking."

"Okey-dokey-hokey-pokey."

Speedy's brow furrowed. "Are we gonna move, or are we just gonna sit here on our asses? I'd like to be done with this sooner than later."

"Just hold your horses, buddy. That's exactly what we're doin' now. You don't think we're doing this nonsense just to be rid of a canker sore, now, do you?" Smiley glanced at his miserable cohort. "That bounty for Claw the Mole just got upped the other day, big-time. You know Toothy-boy is after it from what fathead told us. The closer we are to him, the closer we are to all that sexy moolah. Not only do we get rid of old Bucktooth, but we get a helluva bonus."

"Clever," Speedy uttered dryly. "You make that up yourself?"

"Yep. All by my lonesome."

Wordlessly, the darker kangaroo shifted his focus back to the horizon, ignoring the other two. Smiley and Shifty began to converse among themselves, but Speedy didn't listen. He only sat, and stared. Smiley and Shifty were too caught up in the monetary value of the situation to understand the true importance of what was going on. That money meant nothing to Speedy. Fang had to be dealt with. A truck full of gold wouldn't give him the satisfaction that blood would, and blood was the only thing that would quench his thirst now.

"Let's vamoose," Smiley said finally. "Hold on to your butts a little tighter."

He and Shifty gunned their machines, and the two airbikes thundered off from where they sat, racing across the plain in the direction the weasel-wolf had gone. Speedy spat into the sand before roaring off after them.

_You're a dead man walking, Fang "the Sniper."_

* * *

"_Ohhhh_."

Jagged the Hyena awoke slowly and groggily, and when he did, he quickly realized three things – first, he had fallen asleep in the seat of his big, black motorcycle outside of Dead-Drunk Dave's. Second, he had an indescribable hang-over. Third, he was supposed to do something.

"Ohh... shit."

What was he supposed to do again?

"_Nngh..._"

Go to a bar?

"... No..."

Borrow some money from his buddies?

"_Rgh. _What... the friggin'... _urngh._"

Get drunk?

"... Yeah."

Wait, no. He wiped at the spot on the little dash where he'd been drooling and tried to think harder, but it didn't help his situation. He placed a hand against his head as it lay there, his face smushed up against the back of the motorcycle's windshield. "_Arrggh... _stop... hurting."

_Thump thump thump _went the side of his forehead.

"_RRGH. _Shut up..."

_Thump thump thump thump thump._

"Damn it!"

_Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump __**bing. **_The image of Fang the Sniper flashed through his memory, nestled somewhere between the images of Jagged's favorite nudey bar and his wide collection of assorted pottery.

"HOLY SHIT." The motorcycle roared to life noisily. "Crap crap crap crap crap!"

The back tire shrieked as the hyena tore the road a new ass in his desperate bid to get a move on. Jagged fumed, spazzed, and panicked all at once, cursing continuously at a louder volume than his bike's engine could manage.

Jagged had a ritual where every time he was going after a new bounty, he'd stop and have a pre-hunt drink beforehand to get his vigor going. Unfortunately, he had the tendency to eventually have more than that one drink, and another after that, and then he'd just start ordering various amounts of food to go with his alcohol, and then he'd come to the following afternoon, usually awakening right after the bounty had already been captured. There had already been a few sightings of the target since the previous afternoon, but since he'd been out of it heck knew how long, odds were the reports were long past being of any use to him.

It didn't take long for Jagged to slow the bike down when he realized he had no idea where the hell he was even going. He pulled into the parking lot of a fast food joint and sat for a moment, contemplating things. That fatass police sergeant had sent him some more info on the target after the hyena had departed, info that told of the disappearance of some of the room's most prominent wanted posters. Claw the Mole and his cronies were out there, and there was no doubt in Jag's mind that Fang was after them. Fang liked big money, but the fact that the "sniper" was going for that cash made Jagged think even more.

The gears in his head whirred and squeaked. Jag fought to understand the flow of thoughts hitting his mind.

_Thump thump thump thump thump._

"Rrgh!"

_Thump thump thump thump thump..._

"Shut up!"

_Thump thump thump thump thump thump __**bing. **_Fang plus Claw equaled—

Jag sat there and racked his mind some more. Carry the two... multiply "x" by two-thirds...

Fang plus Claw equaled...

... something.

"URRRGH!" _Thump thump thump thump thump— _"STOP _HURTING!"_

He took a very deep breath and held his hands in front of him, closing his eyes. _Calm down. Calm down. Concentrate. Be the wind, or some shit like that._

Slowly his frustration and fury evaporated. Jag sat there, trying his damndest to look deep in thought as people with fast food bags walked by him and struck him with odd looks.

Fang... plus Claw... equaled...

_Ri-i-i-ing _went his cell phone noisily, and Jagged combusted, flailing his arms wildly, pulling at the fur on his head, and otherwise just pitching a total fit. "_**ARRRRGH!!**_" _Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump._

Out came the phone, the hyena struggling to keep from ripping it into a million pieces like it were paper. "WHAT!!"

The other voice blabbered for a moment.

"_**NO**_ I WASN'T SLEEPING! WHAT IS IT!?"

_Blah-blah-jibba-jabba _went the other line.

"_**YES** _I'M ON THE JOB! WHAT DO YOU _THINK _I'VE BEEN DOING!?

_Blah-blah-blah._

"DAMN IT, I JUST SAID I WASN'T ASLEEP!!_ WHAT THE HELL DO YOU __**WANT!?**_"

_Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah._

"Wait, say what?"

_Blah blah, etcetera-etcetera._

"Are you sure? You're not screwing with me like last time, right? I know I'm the F.N.G., but—"

_Blah-blah-blah-get-your-ass-moving _sounded through the phone at a much louder volume than it'd been at previously.

"Alright, ALRIGHT! I'm going! Get your panties out of a twist!" _Beep _went his thumb against a button, closing the connection. "Stupid prick would ruin a wet dream."

He steered the 'cycle to where he could get out of the parking lot, and gassed the throttle, rumbling out of the lot and down the street loudly. Jagged felt his entire mouth salivate in anticipation. He had a new destination, and its name was Sand Hill.

_Better watch out, 'cause I'm on you, you mangy little sumbitch. You and Claw equal one big damn paycheck, and I aim to cash it._

* * *

"_Nngh._"

Sombrero the Gila Monster had never felt like this before in his life. He'd had a few run-ins with bullets, but they'd all been mere grazing blows; nothing that had really put his life in danger before. This one wasn't either, but it felt like it had scraped off bone toward the top of his shoulder, and he was struggling to do everything he could to lessen the pain, disinfect it, stuture it, wrap it up, and all the while recall everything he'd gone through in med school before he'd said _screw this. _Incompetent as he might have normally been, he hadn't made his living for so long by not knowing how to take care of himself when no one else would or could. The shack, while not exactly furnished like a mansion, did have the sort of necessities required to survive in such a hostile environment – and lifestyle. It had served them all well in the past.

"Son of a friggin'... rrgh."

He finished the self-preservation acts by wrapping the long bandage around his shoulder and tried to move it. There was pain, and no small amount of it, but it did not render him helpless.

"Kill you so bad, I swear."

He had seen the three unfamiliar aerobike riders race off across Sand Hill during his self-treatment. Their presence and objectives had confused him and made him wonder what they were doing, but he reasoned that following after them would probably create some opportunities for bloodshed, and Sombrero definitely wanted in on that game. Any game involving blood – other than his own, anyway – was sure to be fun, and he had a feeling this game would involve the little purple bastard who had shaved some of his scales off. Little son of a bitch. Sombrero was going to make that clown eat the corn from his crap when he caught up with him. Anyone else in the way be damned.

Over to the next room he tropped, retrieving the small black pistol that had gone flying from his grip in the showdown and placing it back into the holster on his belt. He stretched his arm for a second, perhaps to try and dull the pain flowing through it. It didn't work. Sombrero seethed.

Then he stood erect and still for a moment, took in a breath, and grabbed iron. The pistol was back out in the blink of an eye, and in an instant, he was pointing it at some imaginary target on the wall. The wound and pain combined were not enough to overcome his ferocity.

_I ain't out of the picture yet, you purple bastard. It'll take more than a scrape to put me down for the count. I'm gonna find you, and I'm gonna flay you alive._

He slipped the gun back into the holster and re-entered the kitchen to get some supplies. He snatched every 9mm clip he could find, then turned to check himself in the shack's only and absurdly dirty mirror. Straightening the gaudy white hat and the bandana over most of his face, Sombrero quickly started to feel his health and bravado returning. "You are one hot tamalé. Oh yes you are, you good-lookin' little bad boy—"

"Sombrero!"

"**AGGH! DON'T KILL ME!!**" Sombrero raced behind the kitchen wall.

Off came the namesake sombrero as he waved it in the open doorway. A moment later, he peeked out into the main room, face an even lighter shade than the hat and the rest of his clothes.

Dry Horn the Bison was looking right at him. "S-Som—brero."

Into the room came the gila monster, placing the hat back on his head. "Holy crap."

He approached the scene. Dry Horn was lying against the wall, crumpled in a mess of furniture and bleeding from numerous shrapnel wounds, burned on his torso, and both of his legs were useless. Yet he was alive. Sombrero didn't know of anyone resilient enough to take a grenade as close as the bison had and still be drawing breath after such a thing, but he must have been far enough from it to take it without getting every part of him blown off, and the big man was one of the toughest, most hardened individuals he'd ever come across in his entire life. The lizard was amazed and bewildered at once. Dry Horn looked like he'd make it, should he get medical attention.

"I thought you were dead," Sombrero remarked, looking down at the bison.

"Yeah," the big fellow agreed with a choke as he lay there bleeding.

"Y'always were more brawn than brains. Not that I'm jealous or nothin'."

"Wh—" started the gigantic outlaw, "where's— C-Claw?"

"Who?"

"_Claw,_" repeated the bison with a great deal of effort.

"Who's that?"

Dry Horn smoldered even as he lay wounded.

"Just kiddin'. I think he booked it when he saw Big-Shot Bounty Hunter was here. They're long-gone. Ain't nobody watchin' us but God, now. I think Claw took the bomb with 'im, too. Pretty sure he had it on his bike. Took the motion sensors, too. I was lookin' forward to usin' that thing on the vault at Station Square Bank. Ah well, that guy and his gadgets. He's such a dork."

The blood-spattered bison glared at him. He did not seem to think the situation called for the level of humor and conversation that the reptile did.

"Oh. 'Scuse me, how very rude of me."

Dry Horn struggled to say something.

"What is it?" quipped the gila monster curiously.

"Help me," Dry Horn pleaded.

"Huh?"

"Just— gimme some—h-help. Help me."

Sombrero bent his body over, craned his head to one side to put his little ear in the direction of Dry Horn's voice, and said in the most frustratingly slow and quiet voice ever known to civilization: "What...?"

"Help," the bison gagged, looking very desperate to reach up and tear the bandito's ligaments off one at a time, "me."

Sombrero considered it.

"Eh. Okay."

Out came the pistol again.

* * *

Fang the Sniper was not a happy hunter. He was tired, he was thirsty, he was hungry, and he was angry. Not a nice collection of traits to be the proud owner of when one had a job to do – a job that involved a lot of gunplay. But he was going to get Claw if he lost a leg in the process. He wanted that money, and he wanted to bring justice to the little bastard. His tenacity would not be broken.

Since departing on this God-forsaken venture, he had been debating what to do with Claw once he got him. Sure, he'd cash in on the guy's bounty, but he wanted Claw dead, too. The mole deserved death more than anyone Fang had ever known – well, besides perhaps himself. But Fang didn't shoot without call for it. If he had a man to shoot, he shot him, but he always had reasons. It was the only way he'd survived as long as he had. Everyone else who faced him would try to kill him as hard as they damned well could, and Fang wasn't about to let that happen. Claw, however, seemed to liken killing to some kind of pish-posh sport, if that little stunt he'd pulled during a bank heist one time was any indication of the state of his psyche. Fang wasn't about to let that happen much longer, either.

In any case, perhaps Claw would make the decision for him. Fang thought about that, and decided he might as well let the cards play upon the table as they would. Whatever happened happened.

He slowed the aerobike down to study his surroundings. Sand Hill was way too big – it stretched for miles and miles around him, with heat, emptiness, and death amid him. Rocky mesas and ridges rose up all across the zone. Fang didn't like being alone in such open ground with little cover available. He'd always feel as though people were watching him from hiding spots on those ridges, waiting to sink their teeth into him when he wasn't expecting it. They'd tried before. He had little choice in the matter, though, so he shook the funny feelings and kept on, searching for any sign of where Claw's bike had zipped off to. It had been a while since the encounter at the shack, and he didn't want to think about the possibility that he'd totally lost the trail. That would have doomed him from the start.

Eventually he came across a mineshaft embedded in the side of a rocky mountainous formation. Fang approached it warily and stopped the _Queen _some distance from it as he retrieved his rifle. He hadn't brought the ion blaster with him, opting instead for a weathered, battle-hardened and battle-tested bolt-action rifle that he rather well-liked. It had served him nicely in the past, and he wanted it to be there with him when he blasted some piece of Claw's body off, and it could very well do that. It was a powerful little beast.

There was no sign of Claw's airbike, but the little punk could very well have ridden it into the mine. Fang turned the bike so its side faced the mine opening, and Fang slid off the leather seat, making use of the cover the _Queen _provided. He pointed the rifle across the seat at the inky blackness before him.

"_CLAW THE MOLE!_" he yelled in a tone louder than he had used in the past months. "Get your pretty boy ass outta there!"

No response.

"I'm gonna give you five seconds to show yourself! You can come on out and go peacefully or I can blast you outta there! Choice is yours, pretty boy!"

Still no response. All Fang heard was the unnerving silence of Sand Hill. It was an exercise in stark contrast between there and the hustle-and-bustle of places like Station Square and Capital City. Fang liked being alone, sure, but this was a whole new league of alone.

_Damn it, you little piece of crap, get out here! _Going in there was one of the last things that Fang wanted to do _ever. _That was all he had to do to lose a body part of his own, and who knew how long that mine had been there anyway? Damned thing was probably on its last legs. There wasn't even any mining equipment nearby, so it must have been abandoned for decades.

But Fang counted down, nonetheless. "Five! Four! Three! Two! One!"

He knelt there silently. Everything was still quiet.

"Damn it," he seethed quietly, rolling his eyes and clenching his jaw in frustration. He didn't like games, and he hated playing ones the enemy started even more. But he wasn't about to wait around outside for the guy to come out. For all he knew, the mole might not have even been in there. Fang wasn't sure how far behind Claw he was because of Sand Hill's aggravating tendency to throw him off-balance when it came to finding his way around the stupid place, so if the fellow wasn't in there, Fang would have lost that much more time.

Huffing through his nose, he retrieved a flashlight from the _Queen's _storage compartment, and slowly made his way into the mine's opening as quietly as he could, gripping the rifle in one hand.

Even with the little device in his hand and the sunlight pouring in through the opening, it didn't take long for him to be encased in total darkness. There was no power whatsoever in the shaft, so whatever lights hung over head were long past their helpfulness. Fang wasn't afraid of the dark by any means, though. It should have been afraid of him, as far as he was concerned.

Some bare mining equipment was strung about on the ground not far from the entrance of the shaft. All their handles were termite-infested and worn from age, giving Fang a hint as to exactly how old this place was and how long it had been since anyone had likely set foot into this oversized hole. Not that he could blame them – he wouldn't have entered the stupid thing either if he hadn't needed to.

The mine's elevation began dropping below ground level. Fang had seen that coming, since the ridge the mine was built into wasn't particularly large, but it aggravated him anyway. Searching through the bowels of the planet for someone who could very well see him coming pissed him off and made him antsy.

Dirt and rocks crunched meekly beneath his boots. Claw would have been able to hear him easily. It was somehow even more quiet in the mine than it was outside in Sand Hill, but a disturbingly silent few minutes passed as Fang treaded deeper with no sign of the mole. The mine's emptiness was getting to him, and he knew it. _Is this damn guy even in here?_

He started to see why the mine was abandoned. It went for a long way, and they'd probably cleared just about everything worth anything out of it. Fang came across nothing of value, partly to his disappointment, though he found plenty of signs of the miners, including the creepy, desperately-made "monsters from the id" scrawling on the side of the shaft. That one almost rattled Fang's nerves even more. Clever bastards. He might have found it humorous had he not been nerve-wracked to the point where he began to contemplate just shooting _himself._

Soon he began to sweat and get hot. His level of awareness rose every second. He _hated _this, and wanted nothing more than to wring that son of a bitch's neck whenever he found him. It would be a good way to get this out of his system. _When I find that yellow-bellied prick, I'm going to put my foot so far into his ass, he'll be crapping leather for a whole motherfu—_

_Beep _went something on the mineshaft wall.

Fang whirled around noisily, sending pebbles scattering across the surface as his black pupils immediately dilated and searched for the source of the sound. His eyes darted down to a tiny red light around foot level. He flashed the light there, and saw a small, technical-looking device pasted to the wall. There was another one parallel to it on the opposite side of the shaft.

_The frickin'— The hell are those things?_

Then he heard another series of beeps, and these seemed to be counting off once every second. Fang's eyes widened, and he pointed the light further ahead into the shaft where they were coming from. The light shone upon a group of pasty-looking brick shapes, locked to what appeared to be a timer that currently read "_00:00:01._" Fang just about swallowed his lungs, but not before he managed to curse every fiber of Claw's being in his mind.

An earth-shattering boom ruptured the atmosphere as Fang tore across the ground the way he came, racing as fast as he ever had in his life. Dirt and debris from the blast showered his frame, but he was too focused on moving to notice. His already pained legs came ablaze with agony.

Everything was coming down around him. Any support structures were doomed – wooden pillars holding the shaft in place were giving way every instant. Fang charged back uphill while the mountain itself began caving in behind him, crashing and roaring with the rage of the earth. More noise than he had ever heard in his entire life thundered through every bone in his body. If he didn't know better, he'd think the apocalypse was happening right behind him.

He was moving faster than he had in years, faster than he'd ever sped when chasing a bounty. His heart ran like a racehorse on crack. The beam from his flashlight whipped every which way, barely illuminating Fang's path and keeping him from crashing all over himself. His teeth chattered with the noise and quaking, causing him to nearly bite through his own tongue.

Sunlight caught his vision. The support pillars holding the opening in place were already coming down. Fang held his breath and fired for the opening, feeling rocks rain upon the brim of his hat and the tsunami of dirt smash down upon the edge of his tail. He lunged.

The tip of his foot caught one of the fallen wooden pillars, and he tumbled like a hundred-mile-an-hour roller coaster onto the ground in the blindingly bright world of Sand Hill. A monstrous crash of finality rumbled across the zone from the mountain as the most sickening wipeout Fang had ever endured came to a finish.

He laid there motionlessly on the hot ground next to the _Queen,_ the silence slowly returning to Sand Hill, but his eyes were wider than he thought was possible for him. The rifle and flashlight lay next to him, but he didn't notice. He only panted. It took about thirty seconds for him to begin drawing the ability to speak, sand and sweat stuck to his furry face.

"I'm... gonna... _kill you,_" he rasped through grit teeth poisonously, eyes bloodshot, "_someday..._"


	8. Fortuitous Encounters

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Eight – Fortuitous Encounters--**

So Claw wasn't as stupid as Fang had assumed he was. That just figured. He probably should have seen that a long time ago. A fellow with a three hundred thousand dollar bounty on his ass didn't stay out of the iron hands of the law for so long without being at least semi-intelligent. Being on the lamb for as long as the mole probably was had likely sharpened his senses. He might have been a bastard, yet Fang had to commend him for almost one-upping him. But almost didn't count, in the long run.

He swatted sand out of his fur and spat the stuff out of his mouth as he sat on the seat of the _Marvelous Queen, _nose-deep in a land filled with humidity and death. Sand Hill was far and away the most desolate, uninviting, miserable place in all of South Island, and it was huge. Civilization cared nothing for it. People were more than content with the metropolis of Capital City, or the seaside pleasantness of Emerald Town. Even Starlight City, as close to Scrap Brain as it was, turned living into a joy. Sand Hill was not a joy. It was a lonely, awful place, a total haven for people who didn't want to be found. There was almost no sense of law and order out here. Fang didn't like that, but he reckoned it gave him some breathing room as to what he could do if people picked a fight with him.

And he was beginning to feel like he might have to put that advantage to use. Ever since leaving Claw's beat-to-ass shack hours earlier after putting the mole's two cronies down for the count, he'd had a funny feeling that just hadn't wanted to vamoose. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but it was like some instinct he'd eventually acquired after years and years of bounty hunting had started getting noisy all of a sudden – as though to tell him he needed to watch out for some reason. Fang didn't think he was being tracked. He certainly wasn't going to rule out the possibility, but who would come after him in a lousy place like this? The feeling wouldn't go away, though, and he didn't like that.

Sand Hill made it hard for him to keep track of Claw's trail. There wasn't much wind, but what little of it there was tossed waves of sand about, effectively gutting the path Claw's airbike had made. Fang found it increasingly difficult to maintain some sense of where he was going as time went on, and it was getting dark when he rode into a small little piss of a town that consisted of some shacks, tents, dirt streets, and of course, the obligatory shithole where people went and got themselves hammered to the point where they thought they lived there. Fang steered the _Queen _into the latter's dusty parking lot and sat a moment, shutting the machine's power down and letting it come to rest on the ground as he glanced around.

There were no aerobikes about him. He saw no signs that any had been present recently either, but the fact that conventional vehicles used the dirt streets made it difficult for him to see anything that would point to bike activity. Fang muttered and flushed a map out of the _Queen's_ storage compartment.

He studied it silently for a moment, struggling to determine if there were any potential hiding spots Claw could have sped off to nearby. There was nothing of interest that he could see, so he put the map away, slid off the bike, and marched over to the bar's doorway.

It was an even worse-looking dump inside than it was outside. There were few patrons, but they all seemed to quit what they were doing and watched him carefully. He watched back for a moment before approaching the bartop, where an irritable-looking individual waited to not greet him.

Fang didn't bother taking a seat on one of the moldy, crusting stools. "I'm looking for a mole."

"Don't give a damn."

"Well, start giving a damn, 'cause I'm this close to killing the sonofabitch and every other sonofabitch who gets in my way."

The bartender paused. "Y'all that Nack the Weasel feller."

Fang suppressed the urge to scream, biting the sides of his mouth.

"I mighta seen someone like that," the old fart continued, "if there's some kinda reward in for me."

"Tell me what you know and I'll consider giving you something. I sincerely hope you're not wasting my time."

"Alrighty, mister. There was a mole here a coupla hours back."

"What'd he look like?" Fang barked, ignoring the intense stares he was catching from everyone else present.

"Short – shorter 'n you, anywho. Looked awful unhappy. We get fellas in here like that all the time, though. Guess this kinda country's the only place they can go."

"Was he riding?"

"I think so. Poor little guy was all dusty like he'd just rode across alla Sand Hill."

"Anybody with him?"

"Not that I could tell. Doubt a guy like that has many friends. Real friends, anyhow."

"Was he packing heat?"

"Was he what?"

"Did he _have any weapons on him?_" Fang said very slowly and deliberately so the idiot would have a chance at understanding this time around.

"Didn't see any. What'd this fella do, anyway?"

"He pissed me off is what he did." Like Fang was going to let loose the details. The people in this piss-ant town probably would have shot down their ancestors for a chance at that three hundred grand on Claw's ugly head. "Any idea where he is now?"

"Think he musta been headin' north. Might still be here in town, shackin' up for the night. Only hotel here is upstairs, though, and he didn't head that way."

Fabulous. Fang grimaced. He didn't want to have to scour every inch of the town, though. If Claw _wasn't _here, he'd be that much more behind. The search would move north. He placed a twenty in front of the bartender and turned to exit.

"The hell's this?" the old guy interrupted.

"It's called money, idiot."

"I gave you some good info, boy."

Fang stood there, staring at him blankly, which in his case meant very unhappily.

"An' I expect to be compensated at least for the trouble of, uh…"

Fang still stood silently.

"Er."

The bartender took the twenty and sighed.

Fang turned again and began to make for the ugly old door, but someone was standing at it, leaning against its rickety frame. "Get outta the goddamned way."

The hedgehog didn't so much as move a muscle.

"I said, _move._" Fang's hand gripped the noisemaker in his gunbelt's holster. He didn't have time for this crap.

"You're not going anywhere," a voice behind him said.

With an expression on his face that would have made granite look soft, the weasel-wolf turned slowly, not letting up the firm grip he had on his semiautomatic as he sent a vile look at whoever had the gall to impede him like this.

"At least not alive," the speaker finished.

It was another hedgehog. And like all hedgehogs Fang ran into these days, he was wearing black. And look – he even had some red on him in places, too. Fang almost laughed – until he saw the gun the geeky-looking fellow was carrying. But he remained indignant. He wouldn't have had it any other way. The kid probably barely knew how to use that thing anyhow, and even if he did, Fang would just kill him. "Everybody in this town as stupid-looking as you?"

"You're Nack the Weasel," the hedgehog said, as though Fang didn't already know that.

"And?"

"And," came the continuation, "we've got business together."

"Why do all you punks these days have to wear black?" Fang asked the kid irritably, subconsciously unsure of whether or not he even wanted to know the answer. "Can you even tell each other apart? And you've all gotta be hedgehogs. I can't count how many hedgehogs I've had to go after in the last six months alone. You people propagate too damn much."

In a deadpan tone, the hedgehog said: "You shot my father in Green Hill."

Well, that just figured. Fang was silent – if only for a moment. He spared a second to roll his eyes. "Did I?"

"Damn yeah, you did." The hedgehog's face muscles were tight as a knot, his jaw clenched in quiet loathing.

Fang huffed through his nostrils. "Yeah, sure I did."

Everyone else in the place looked ready to bolt. It was silent from all corners.

"What?" was the incredulous reply.

"I'll bet I've never even met the guy."

"You _did!_" The unfamiliar hedgehog waved his hand in frustration."You shot him down in cold-blood, you rat!"

"Well, if I did, I'm sure I must have had a good reason." Fang's handle on his gun's grip disappeared. "I never kill anybody without a good reason."

He paused, then gave the hedgehog an almost nonexistent smile, like one might give a small child. "But those aren't hard to find when chasing people like your daddy."

Fury flashed through the hedgehog's stare.

"Hey," the big old bartender said, "fellas, no fightin' in here. I don't need no dead men runnin' off customers, alright? Y'all take it outside where y'can kill each other without decorating my place with you."

Fang gestured to the punk in front of him. "I'm sure Mr. Generic Emo here would rather die like any man would prefer, surrounded here by drinking friends. Too bad he doesn't look old enough to drink."

"The only drink I want is your blood," the hedgehog hissed through clenched teeth.

"Cute." Fang's expression said otherwise. "Look, junior, I don't have time for this, so your noble quest for revenge can piss off. Now tell your lackey to get away from the damn door before I shoot him. Tell Sonic I said hi, because I'm sure you _totally _know him. You're probably some new rival of his."

"I said, you're not leaving here alive. Everybody on this whole island's going to know that Ruin the Hedgh—"

Fang's pupils drifted away from the speaker as he sighed quietly.

The hedgehog stood there. "What?"

"Your name's _Ruin?_"

Silence.

"So what?"

"Your name is _Ruin._"

"So what!?"

"Is that your _real _name?" Fang asked in the most modestly insulting manner he could muster.

"D'—" the hedgehog spat. "I—_maybe!!_"

"What's _doorway's_ name? _Extinction? Decay?_"

"It's _Doug,_" the guy behind him at the door said.

"Damn it, don't tell him that! _Damn it!_"

"What about your dad?" Fang asked. "What was he? I know! _Insolvency!_"

"SHUT UP!"

"Heh heh," the guy at the door giggled.

"ARGH, _YOU SHUT UP TOO!_"

"Did your parents give you this name? Could they not afford a ten dollar name like the rest of us have? What was your mom's name? Could she even afford one for herself?"

"I said, _SHUT THE HELL UP!!_ I'm going to _KILL YOU!!"_

"When you were born and they were trying to figure out what to call you, did they just grab a dictionary, flip it open, point to something and go with that? I'll bet your real name is Simon or something. Who the hell calls themselves _Ruin? _Why don't you call yourself _Retarded Gothy Heroin-shooting Teenage Douchebag Who Doesn't Have His Priorities Straightened Out Yet?_ Because that's much more appropriate. Have you ever even had a job?"

The hedgehog could only stand there with an expression one might have seconds before their brains exploded out the top of their head. "You--... You--..."

"I swear," Fang groused, "all you kids these days, with your black clothes, and your goofy names, and your red makeup, and your _hedgehoginess, _and your Pinkin Lark CDs stuck bone-deep in your wrists, it's no wonder your dad ran off to get himself killed. I'll bet he gave you that gun in the hope that you'd somehow manage to shoot yourself with it—"

The hedgehog grabbed iron.

Fang was already juking out of the way by the time the first shot sounded off noisily, and he felt something hot shave some fur from his shoulder. _BANG _went the hot round through the door, missing the head of the fellow who was standing at it by approximately four atoms.

"Ho-lee _sh--!!_" Off to the side dove the poor guy, and that was all the room Fang needed to split. He'd been tempted to just blast the hedgehog, but he was already being shot at, and this was a quicker exit. He was out the doorway in a flash as gunfire followed in his wake.

Over to the _Queen _he bolted, footsteps crunching in the dirt-gravel of the parking lot until the weasel-wolf leapt right over the airbike's back and into its leather seat. It took him a nanosecond to start the machine up, and he again felt something hot blow past him, this bullet feeling like it was even closer than the last. The little punk wasn't too bad with his pea shooter; Fang had to give him that.

He turned in the seat hurriedly, drawing his own killer from its nest, and he snapped off a quick, loud shot back at the bar. He was in too much of a hurry to do so, though, and he could see the hedgehog – whatever the hell his name was supposed to be – jolt backwards behind the building's frame as the round impacted against its surface, smoke and wood chips spraying from the hit. That was all the time he needed to give the airbike some gas, and he tore forward, sending a wash of dirt and gravel up behind him as he blasted out of the lot and away down a street.

It didn't take him long to get enough distance between he and the town to be safe, at which point he slowed to a stop and looked back at it. If Claw still was there, then Fang was out of luck, because he sure as hell wasn't about to set foot back in there again. He'd have to check his map to figure out where the mole might have run off to up north.

He inspected himself, and felt his eyebrows raise very slightly when he saw a trickle of blood oozing down his arm where the second round had nicked him.

"_Tch._" Nothing ever came easy.

* * *

"Hey!" _BANG BANG BANG _went Jagged the Hyena's hand against the door of the lone wooden home as a dusty wind breezed around him. He hated Sand Hill. If there was ever a place that really was out in the middle of nowhere, the whole stupid zone was it. Sand kept getting stuck in his fur, he hadn't had a drink in hours, and he _still _had the remnants of a hangover. That, and this _stupid guy wouldn't answer his fuggin' door. _"HEY!!"

Just when he thought he'd never get a response, it swung open, and Thor the Gorilla glared at him.

"What do you want?" the massive gorilla queried in a tone that indicated he was feeling anything less than polite at the moment.

Jagged stared up at the guy. Thor was about three times his size all-around, and the guy looked ready to crush the nearest person's ribcage like it were a pack of cigarettes. "I, uh—"

"You're bangin' on my door and you ain't even figured out what you want to say yet," Thor rumbled.

"Well, uh—"

"You gotta be screwin' with me. Man, people like you are what's wrong with society. You bother people and you don't know what the hell you even doin'. They don't even pay no attention to that do-not-call list shit."

"I, uh—"

"I keep gettin' calls from people trying to sell me water insurance. What the hell is water insurance? I don't even know. Does it look like I could go swimmin' around here?"

"Um—"

"You ain't tryin' to sell me insurance, are you? 'Cause I damned-for-sure don't need no water insurance. I don't even know what the hell you doin' here yet 'cause a damn cat got your tongue."

"Er—"

"So why don't we try this again? Knock again when you figure out what the hell you want to say to me. Asshole."

_SLAM._

Jagged stood there.

Five minutes later, once he'd come up with a way to keep the gorilla from ripping his arms off the next time he knocked, the hyena gave things another go. He wasn't exactly looking to charm Thor into a romantic dance under the evening sky, so as long as he kept the big man from slapping him around, he'd be out of here in no time. At least, that was the plan, and few of Jagged's plans ever really worked out for him because it seemed like push always came to shove, and he didn't think many of them through anyway.

"What!?" Thor thundered when he swung his door back open, glaring down at Jagged's battle-scarred visage.

"Listen," Jag started, holding his hands up. "You don't like me, and I don't like you—"

"I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO THE HELL YOU ARE!" Every grain of sand within the surrounding half-mile shifted positions.

"Damn it, I'm with the friggin' government, alright!? I'm looking for somebody!"

"Is that so?" Thor's eyes narrowed. "And you think I've got somethin' to do with this somebody?"

"Yes—_no—YES. _I mean— uh—" Jagged wondered how quickly he could put himself a hundred miles from this guy in the event of an emergency happening within the next two instants.

"Now just who are you lookin' for?" Thor's tree-sized arms crossed over his Hoover dam-sized chest.

"Fang the Sniper. I got a tip he was heading out this way. This dump of yours is the only speck of civilization I've seen since I got here, so I figured his fleabitten hide would show up here sooner or later." Jagged frustratedly ignored brushes of sand sweeping past him and getting into his black ears. He wanted to get this over with as fast as he could manage. Standing here wasting time with this goofball was probably putting major distance between he and the target, but he didn't have many choices as far as that went. He didn't have any leads of his own. As long as Thor cooperated, though, that probably wouldn't be a problem.

Except, naturally, Thor didn't cooperate. "Never heard of him."

Jag's expression fell slightly, and some part of his inner soul burned in rage. "What the hell did you just say to me?"

"Never heard of him," Thor repeated in the exact same tone as before.

"You've never heard of _Fang the Sniper? _Are you from the moon? I didn't know they had hillbillies there. I'll bet you don't know who Sonic the Hedgehog is either."

"Don't know Fang the Sniper. Not much city life out here in case you haven't noticed, genius."

"Bullshit." Jagged felt a great deal of his intimidation evaporate, and he was suddenly not feeling as generous as he'd been seconds earlier. "You could live under a rock and you'd know who he is. Even out here in the boonies, people know him. Probably because all you wankers come out here to get away from the law, and he comes after you."

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that."

"Just like how you're pretending you're a blind-ass ghetto prick." Treading hot waters always filled Jagged with a fine, firm sense of accomplishment. When he didn't get his butt handed to him, anyway. "Tell me what you know, **now.**"

"I said, I _don't know him._" Thor cheeks flushed. "Now get the hell outta here."

"I'm not leaving this _friggin' spot _until you tell me something!" Jagged frothed, bloodshot veins stretching into the whites of his eyes.

Thor sneered. "Then maybe I oughta just call the authoriti—"

"I **am **the authorities! _Goddamn it!! _Are you _DEAF!?_"

Thor stood there, thinking.

"Alright," the big boy eventually said. "He went east."

A long, miserable exhale eased from Jagged's nostrils. "East, huh."

Thor smiled. "Maybe."

And he chuckled audibly, leering down at the hyena.

Jagged was silent, and then he smiled too.

Before Thor even knew what was happening, he was already in the middle of being blasted with a healthy surge from Jagged's nine-hundred-thousand-volt stun baton as the hyena jammed its lethal end as hard as he could into the gorilla's abdomen, the sinister weapon crackling and spitting with all the subtlety of a nuclear war. Thor was down before a full second had passed, and Jag was right in his face the whole time.

"WHO THE _HELL _DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?" the hyena roared while Thor writhed on his dirty wooden floor in agony. "DON'T YOU GET IT!? DID I NOT TELL YOU WHO I AM!? YOU BIG FAT BODY COMMIE GRAB-ASSER! I SHOULD BITE YOUR WHOLE DAMN _HEAD OFF!!_"

_WHACK _went the baton against the gorilla's massive head. "NOW TELL ME WHERE THAT MANGY RABID FUCKER WENT, OR I'LL FILL YOU UP WITH SO MUCH LIGHTNING, THEY'LL ISSUE A SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING EVERY TIME YOU TAKE A CRAP!!"

"Up—" Thor gasped, "He went up north-west! He came—came by—"

"ARE YOU _SHITTING ME!?_" Jag's eyeballs bulged to the point where they almost fell out of his head.

"No! No! I'm not!"

"SO HELP ME GOD IF YOU'RE LYING TO ME, I'LL COME BACK HERE AND BURN YOUR WHOLE DAMNED HOUSE DOWN AND USE THE ASHES TO CLEAN MY TOILET!!"

"No-- NO!! _NO!! HE WENT THERE! THERE'S A SHACK OUT THERE!! LOOK THERE!!_"

"YEAH, THAT'S _RIGHT _HE WENT THERE! KNOW YOUR PLACE, YOU PIT-SCRATCHING, KNUCKLE-DRAGGING WASTE OF SPACE!! YOU WILL NOT LAUGH!! YOU WILL NOT CRY!! YOU WILL LEARN BY THE NUMBERS!! I WILL TE—"

Jagged looked up from his mayor-of-Psychoville tirade and saw Thor's wife and seven small children standing some distance from the scene, staring at him with mouths agape. The first thing Jag noticed about them was that they were all Thor's size.

The hyena stood there motionlessly.

"Hiya."

A symphony of knuckle-cracking filled the room.

"_Ohshit--_"

* * *

After he'd managed to scramble away from eight enraged gorillas looking to rip his arms off and shove both of them up his ass until he could taste them, Jagged had made his way across Sand Hill as far as he was able to, but that didn't amount to a very far distance. He'd quickly started realizing that his motorcycle did not appreciate having to roll across the sand at such lengths, and under a hot burning sun, no less. Eventually the thing had sputtered pathetically before dying on him, and the furious hyena had given it a swift kick out of frustration.

Now he was trekking across the desert on foot, with a near-broken leg. In his sweaty, stinky state, muttering and cussing himself out didn't help his situation any, but it sure as hell made him feel better. "Fuck this whole place. I hate this. What sort of stupid dumb monkey-ass commie jackass would come all the way out here to find some butt-blaster who probably isn't worth the space he takes up? Oh, yeah, that's right. I would. Way to go, dumbshit. This is exactly where I wanted to die, out here in the middle of the seventh circle of hell. I must be losing my whole damn mind if I'm stupid enough to..." Etcetera, etcetera.

But he wasn't stupid enough to get himself lost. Jagged stopped at the top of a sandy rise when he saw a small wooden building sitting comfortably between a few natural rocky pillars. The hyena was stricken stupid upon seeing it, having been expecting a million more miles of desert to greet him once he'd reached the top of the rise, but it didn't take him long to race down its side toward the shack, cackling like an idiot to himself the entire time. He didn't even notice the big, black aerobike sitting a short distance from its entrance. "Ha! _Ha! Ha ha ha ha haaa! _Who's your daddy!? Oh baby! _Water water water beer water water. _Come to papa!"

Oh, right. Someone in that building would probably try to kill him once he set foot in there. Whoopsy. Well, fuck them. He'd just kill them first. He threw open the decrepit old door to the shack and hurried in. "Water water beer beer beer wat-- **HOLY** MOTHER OF GOD."

Dry Horn the Bison lay on the floor next to the shack's termite-infested wall, looking like everything Jagged had never wanted to see _ever. _He'd stopped bleeding from his wounds, but that only meant he'd run out of stuff with which to bleed. It was an atrocious sight. Jagged had seen some crazy stuff before, but this wasn't exactly a scene he'd expected to come across when he'd barged in through the door.

Part of the wall on another side of the room had been blown out, and sand had crept in from various breezes rolling across the dunes. He spied two spent bullet shell casings on the floor. What in the holy hell had happened here? Jagged suddenly understood the danger he'd run into and he hurriedly pulled his semiautomatic from the holster on his belt, keeping it raised toward the only other door in the building. It led to the kitchen, but he found nothing out of the ordinary there.

Once he was certain the place was empty, save for himself and the gargantuan guy on the ground, he was able to breathe a little easier. Normally Jagged welcomed conflict, but the thought of doing so right now didn't sit well with him. He was suddenly nerve-wracked, and that would have made for a harsh battle. At least now he could do some snooping around without having to worry too much about getting his head blown off.

Jagged's stomach flip-flopped at the thought of doing so, but he had to. As much as he hated it, he approached the body, glancing at the windows out of paranoia that someone would pop up by one of them and try to blast him.

Dry Horn might have been ugly before, but this was a whole new level of ugly. Jagged knew who the guy was – Both of Claw the Mole's cronies had miserable reputations of their own, reputations they hadn't gotten by dicking around like con artists or gumball machine thieves. They were both killers, and almost as mean as he was. Sombrero the Gila Monster, Claw's other lackey, was nowhere in sight, and for that Jag admitted he was a little thankful. But because he didn't know where the guy was, he'd have to watch out for himself, too. But if big boy here was down, there was a chance that so too was the lizard. Jagged sneered at that thought. He was at least smart enough to keep from making presumptions that could get him shot dead.

He did a quick investigation and quickly caught notice of a clean, round hole in the bison's forehead. What the hell was _that _doing there? Why had a shot to the head been necessary with all these other gruesome wounds? Jagged didn't get it. He looked away from the body and around the rest of the old craphole, struggling to figure it out, but no revelation appeared. Well, whatever. It probably wasn't important anyway.

Then he remembered – this was where Fang the Sniper had been headed. That was the whole damn reason Jagged had come out this way. Once he remembered that, everything became a little more clear. That realization made him stand there and contemplate everything in silence, something he wasn't used to and thoroughly disliked. It didn't take him long to get himself back in gear.

He reached across his back toward his belt where he kept his map, except he forgot he hadn't brought one. "What the f—_where _in the _fuck _is my—what the _fuck! _Are you friggin'— You've got to be kidding me. You have _got _to be messing with my head. Oh son of a bitch. Son of a BITCH! _F-f-f-f-f-f-f--_"

He struggled in rage to keep from placing the gun against his own damn head while he stood there hissing and spitting, his eyes bugging out of his skull. Five seconds later he was hurrying into the kitchen and rifling through various drawers. There _had _to be a map in this place. These assclowns couldn't possibly have found their way around this armpit of a zone without one while they'd been here. Just before he started shooting up the place out of frustration, a miracle happened. "_There _you are! It's about time."

Unfolding it, his eyes darted across its surface as he began to head outside, not bothering to look up from it – _bump. _"Goddamn wall, fuck yourself!"

Once he was finally back outside in stupid Sand Hill's sandy winds, the hyena started to trudge forward, still examining his new accessory – _bonk. _"OW, _GODDAMNIT!!_"

He looked down at what his already-aching leg had clonked into. Dry Horn's big, mean-looking airbike sat inanimate before him, causing Jagged to actually shrink back in surprise. He hadn't even noticed it when he'd been inside the shack. It was a massive machine, bigger than the bison himself. Not only that, but there was a key inside its ignition slot. How about that? Jagged was stunned at his luck. Dry Horn must have kept it in there in the event of an emergency, such as getting shot at. Who could blame him? "Damn."

He spared a glance back at the shack. Dry Horn certainly didn't need the thing anymore, and Jagged did. Screw it. He'd take good care of it. Climbing into the seat awkwardly and tenderly, he tried to get comfortable while rubbing the machine's handlebars. _Daddy's gonna take good care of you, sweetheart. What do you say you and I get better-acquainted?_

_Click _went his finger against the igniter, and the machine roared to life. _Holy damn! That was hot. Let's see if you can't do that again. Hey, you don't have any papers I have to fill out or anything, do you? Because I really can't read worth a shit—_

The machine suddenly shot forward when Jagged nicked the accelerator, sending both rider and steed crashing into the side of the shack.

"Ow."


	9. Rebels

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Nine – Rebels--**

People had already started ogling the bar where Fang the Sniper had made his mark. Though the fighting had taken place not twenty minutes earlier, the venomous tension in the air still hadn't disappeared. The smell of smoke from the men's man-killers still hung around, which was perhaps the reason everyone still didn't feel completely safe. Either that, or it was the continuous presence of the individuals Fang had been shooting at before the sun had set.

"Are y'hurt bad?" someone asked the hedgehog, who was sitting on a wooden seat with a rag pressed against his shooting arm.

"I'll be better once I find that bastard," he hissed. He hadn't been shot, but some of the debris that had blasted every which way when Fang had shot at the bar itself had sliced his fur, giving him a bad cut. Other than that, he was no worse for the wear. "I can't believe I let him get away."

The other hedgehog shrugged his shoulders. "Well, y'know, that _was _Fang the Sniper. You're probably lucky to even be sitting there."

There was no reply to that comment.

"Seriously. I mean, this is the guy who shot your pop."

"You think I don't know that!?" was the raspy response. "Damn him. I'm gonna find him and shoot him down with a cold, steady hand, just like how he killed my father."

The other hedgehog didn't answer.

"What?"

"Did he _really _kill your dad?"

The seated individual burned. "Yes!"

"Are you sure?"

"YES!"

"What did your dad do?"

The hedgehog blinked. "He—uh... I—er..."

"Do you... not know?" There was a collection of loud, mechanical whining sounds coming from somewhere outside, but they went ignored.

"Of course I know! He, uh..."

"Maybe he's the one who started the whole thing. Maybe Fang just shot him in self-defense."

The hedgehog stared up at the other with a look on his face that all but said he was going to hand him a body part in the next nanosecond.

"Er... Or not."

Out of the chair the shooter stood, hurtling the bloody rag into a garbage can next to the bartop. "Well, I'm not going to sit around here while he gets further and further away! Bastard's probably over in the friggin' Spring Yard or something by now. You guys got any extra clips?"

The bartender didn't like this idea one bit. "Hold up, buddy. Y'saw what that boy did to my bar. You gonna run off and try'n git yourself killed all over again? You were lucky to just come away with that little scratch on your arm."

"Don't you try to boss me around, Chip. I know what I'm doing. Doug, are you coming or not?"

The second hedgehog crossed his arms and looked away. "I ain't gettin' myself killed over nothin'. Fang the Sniper never done nothin' to me."

The first fumed. "Are you gonna give him the chance to?"

There was no reply.

"_Fine, _damn it!" The leader turned towards the bar's decrepit old door. "I guess it's up to me to take down the son of a—"

"Hold up! You're gonna go after this guy, and you don't even know if it was him."

"Quit trying to stop me. I'm going to make him eat lead."

"At least tell me this," said his friend. "What'd the guy who did it look like?"

The hedgehog paused. "I only know from what I heard. He had a hat, and boots, a funny-lookin' tail. Heard the sonofabitch was smiling when he did it."

"A lotta people out there wear stuff like that. Especially around here."

"Yeah, like who?"

"Like—"

They stopped when they realized the bar had new visitors, and the entire room went dead silent.

The three kangaroos stood line abreast, examining the bar's interior wordlessly, their eyes lingering on every inhabitant for seconds at a time. The one in the middle sniffed the air, and it wouldn't be hard for him to detect that all-too familiar scent of gunpowder. Smiley huffed through his nostrils, having never particularly liked the smell. He didn't know if he could say the same for the other two, but they were all so used to it by then that they themselves might have started carrying that distinctive scent on them everywhere they went. No wonder people didn't like them.

Speedy was silent. Shifty picked at the contents of one lanky ear. The trio's alpha male just smiled as he looked around the place some more, the gaze under the brim of the Stetson-style hat taking notice of not only the smoke but the small holes throughout the walls, as well as the tiny spent shell casings on the dirty wooden floor.

"Looks like y'all had yourselves a fight in here," he drawled, wide grin widening.

"You're very perceptive," the hedgehog said dryly.

"Might I inquire as to the details of this little melee?"

The first hedgehog just stared at the trio, unsure of what to make of them. They looked like professional trouble-makers, and he suddenly felt a great deal of his hardy adventurousness evaporate, moreso when he saw all the shooters on them. It seemed like Sand Hill was the prime location for men who liked carrying guns and liked using them more, and owning one was all a good person could do in order to survive in such a miserable place. There was nothing the authorities could do about it, either – at least not until a major colony popped up in it, but that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. "Who wants to know?"

Smiley didn't answer. He just stood inanimate, watching the room's occupants, all the while taking note of the heat the hedgehogs were packing. Stares from all corners were returned with as much to say.

"We're looking for a man," Speedy uttered after realizing his boss wasn't interested in speaking up. "Calls himself Fang the Sniper."

It was almost possible to visibly see the hedgehog's blood vessels freeze in place. "What do you want with him?"

"That's none of your business." The kangaroo's hand wasn't far from his gun. "Has he been here or not?"

The hedgehog glanced to his comrades. "He was here. He shot up the place. And I'm gonna head out after him. Bastard killed my father."

Smiley's grin swelled until it seemed to swallow his entire face, and the eyes of the room saw it.

Speedy didn't look impressed. "That breaks my heart."

"Your sympathy moves me deeply."

"What'd your dad do?" Shifty queried, genuinely curious.

"He, uh—"

Speedy's head lowered. "Do you not even know?"

"Of course I do!" the hedgehog hissed.

"Fang the Sniper probably never even met your dad. He doesn't do his hunting in shirt factories."

The slack-jawed hedgehog just stared blankly, mouth agape. "He _did! _Why the hell doesn't anybody believe me?!"

"I believe you," Shifty said.

"Well, I'm just thrilled to death to hear that."

"Actually, I'm just tryin' to make you feel better."

The hedgehog ground against his teeth so hard, they almost snapped.

Speedy was less amiable. "Any clue where he went?"

"Now why would I tell you that if I'm looking to kill him myself?"

"Guess not." Speedy looked marginally put-off by the reply. He turned his gaze to his boss.

Smiley just looked back, then studied everyone, from the young fellow opposite them, to the bartender, and all their friends. The pleasant look on his face deteriorated slightly. "Let me make you boys an offer."

The hedgehog stood there, glancing between the three kangaroos, the bartender, and his buddy.

The motions were swift and unexpected, and they brought with them amazing accuracy. Out came both of Smiley's semiautomatics, and a volley of blasts exploded into the room, echoing off the interior walls and rattling the atmosphere. The first hedgehog was knocked back all the way onto a table. The other one took a shot to the neck and collapsed awkwardly onto his side. Any screams were drowned out by the thunder of the guns, and both of them were dead before they knew what had hit them. Smiley stood frozen in the seconds that followed, until he slowly draped the weapons back within their leather holsters. Speedy and Shifty hadn't even flinched. They almost looked amused.

He turned his poisonous gaze to the bartender, whose head was only just barely visible above his bartop. "I trust our terms are fair enough for you."

* * *

It wasn't even fifteen minutes after that happened that the town had more trouble, and that trouble wasn't happy. Jagged the Hyena wasn't ever very happy in the first place, unless he were drinking, in which case it didn't take him long to enter a state that wasn't anything _near _happy. Now that he had a big, new airbike to jerk around with, though, things were looking up for him, but that didn't make him any more pleasant to be around when he strolled into the hole-in-the-wall's only gun store. He figured that it would be one of the more popular businesses in town, second only to the bullet-riddled bar down the street. He was halfway-right; there were two other men examining pieces of weaponry inside.

"Gimme the biggest, meanest shooter you've got," he grumbled to the bear sitting on an old wooden chair behind the glass cases showing off various man-killers of differing worth but of equal lethality. He'd decided that going after a fellow as dangerous as Fang the Sniper necessitated the need for some ugly machines of death, whatever the cost. Fang was obviously on the trail of some bad company, so Jagged knew he'd feel better with something that could deal with them easier than his pistol could.

"You gots any money?" said the big old boy in a way that told Jagged he might be dealing with someone who hadn't gotten past the second grade.

It took Jagged a few seconds to whip out his wallet and flash the credit card he used that pointed all necessary expenses on this little trip towards GUN's financial department.

The bear shook his head. "Ain't got nothin' that can take that."

"What!?" Jagged screeched.

"Ain't got nothin' that can ta—"

"I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID! Whaddya mean you can't take it!?"

"Ain't got nothin' that can take th—"

"DAMN IT, I KNOW THAT!!_ WHY NOT!?_"

"I'unno," the bear told him with a shrug. "Never needed anything like that before."

Hissing and spitting to keep from tearing the man's head off, Jagged rustled through his wallet further, hoping he hadn't spent all of his last paycheck on booze. He recalled that Dry Horn had had a mean-looking shotgun not far from where he'd taken his last breaths – If only the hyena had been smart enough to grab that while he'd been there. "What'll five bucks get me?"

The man said nothing.

"_Rrrgh!!_" Jagged shuffled through the wallet more, praying he'd find _something _of worth inside its bleak, empty corners. He eventually found an extremely crumpled up ten dollar bill that he'd kept in the event of an emergency – specifically, when he'd really needed a drink – but that was the only thing of any monetary value. Everything else was stupid useless crap ranging from his insurance card to GUN's I.T. department phone number.

"Can give ya a box-a-bullets, but nothin' else. They're nine-millimeters."

Screw it. He'd take whatever he could get by this point. "Fine."

He forked over the money and took the heavy box into a hand. Damned thing must have weighed more than a walrus. He turned around towards the business' door, and... stopped. Jagged remembered that his semiautomatic didn't load by the round. It wasn't some old six-shooter -- it loaded by clips. Not only that, but his gun shot forty-fives. He looked at the gun in his holster, then at the box in his hand, then back at the gun, then back at the box. He stood there.

_"FUCK!!__"_

The door suddenly swung open, and in stalked a short, irritable-looking lizard wearing a gaudy bone-white sombrero and equally-gaudy bandana over his face. Those were the first things Jagged noticed about him. The second was that the little guy was packing heat much like he was, and he looked pissed off enough to put that heat to use within the next minute or two. A pair of gleaming, silver-finished semiautomatics slept within brown leather holsters on the newcomer's gunbelt, and amidst the two clip belts criss-crossing across his torso, his shoulder was draped in a large white bandage. Jagged was silent, watching him and slowly realizing who it was.

Sombrero the Gila Monster marched right up to the counter, glaring thunderbolts at the entrepreneur sitting in the ratty old seat. "These guns you sold me ain't worth shit!"

"Why not?" was the question in a _who the hell cares _kind of way.

"You said the damn things were lucky! Well, _they ain't! _I just shot at some loser a little while ago, and I didn't hit him!"

"That's a damn shame."

"You know what? Screw you. I'm doing things the big way, 'cause I'm the fuckin' man. Gimme the biggest damn gun you got!"

"You gots any money?" asked the bear in the exact same tone and with the same sleepy-eyed look he'd used with Jagged moments earlier.

"Whaddya, stupid? Of course I've got money!" Sombrero was already fishing through his own wallet, which looked much like Jag's in that they both were official _Dr. Eggman™-_brand, complete with cartoony caricatures of the doctor himself. "Guy'd have to be a total dumbshit to walk around without any money these days. Y'act like I was born on a fuckin' farm, I—... What the friggin'— Where the hell— Oh shit. Don't tell me I spent it all at the casino just now. Shit. Damn it. Shit."

Jagged, the store owner, and the other customers watched as Sombrero stood wordlessly, the reptile glancing around and trying to figure out what exactly to do at this revelation. He hesitated, then held up a gloved finger. "I'll be back in a minute."

He exited, leaving everyone to share silent expressions. Ten seconds passed. There came a scream from the business directly next door, making the two other customers jump. It was followed by yelling, cursing, crying, more cursing, and then there was silence.

Sombrero reappeared a few moments later. He approached the counter again and slammed a large wad of bills onto its surface. "Here."

The bear's eyes slowly drifted to the cash, then eased back up to Sombrero's hidden face at a speed so slow Jagged wondered if the man were alright. Every ounce of the money disappeared into the store's old-fashioned cash register. Sombrero did not object.

"Whad'you wanna get?" the bear asked.

"Well—"

"Say," Jagged piped up. That bandage had gotten his attention, and he had a feeling he knew why it was there. "What happened to your shoulder?"

The outlaw stopped and turned to glare at Jagged fiercely.

"Why don't you mind your own business, scarface!?" Sombrero's line of sight returned to the guns. "Go fist yourself."

Jagged felt every muscle in his body twist into a knot, and he seriously weighed the pros and cons of unscrewing Sombrero's head and playing basketball with it.

"So," mumbled the bear to the scaly customer, "whad'you wanna get?"

"Well, where's the biggest damn gun you got? Oh, hey, I want that. Gimme that." The reptilian bandito was pointing at a shotgun one might expect was specially-sized for use by people the size of Australia.

Jagged's eyes bugged out of their sockets. "HEY, NO, WAIT-A-MINUTE, I WANTED THAT!"

"Well, you snooze, you lose, scarface." Sombrero didn't look at him.

The hyena's head whipped back and forth between Sombrero and the bear behind the counter, creating a very nice cross-breeze in the room. "WHAT THE HELL, I SAW THAT THING FIRST!"

"Shoulda said somethin'," said the bear.

"I DID _say somethin'! _I said I wanted the biggest, meanest shooter you got!"

The bear sat there. "Y'did?"

"Yes!"

Silence. "Y'sure?"

"_YES!!_"

More silence. "When wuzzat?"

A very loud _huff _was heard by all present.

"When I came _IN HERE,_" Jag growled through clenched fangs.

"Y'sure?"

Red veins stretched into the whites of Jagged's eyes. It became thoroughly convincing that looks _could _kill.

"Y'gots any money?" asked the owner.

Jagged thought for a second, then looked at the box of bullets in his hand. His free fingers latched onto the fur on his head as his mouth spat every obscenity ever created by civilization.

"So is that thing buckshot or what?" Sombrero queried to the store owner while the establishment's other customers increased their distance from the flailing hyena.

"I'unno."

The lizard was incredulous. "What the hell do you mean, you don't know?"

"I'unno."

"Screw it, I'll take it anyway. I wanna kill me some big game."

"You gots any money?"

Sombrero stood there, ignoring Jag's continuing fit. "What?"

"That there gun is two thousand."

"_TWO THOUSAND!_" yelled the gila monster.

"Yep. Nice gun, that one."

"ARE YOU FUCKING _CRAZY!?_" he shrieked even louder.

"I'unno."

"I JUST GAVE YOU LIKE A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!"

"Y'did?"

"_OF COURSE I DID,_ YOU _**MORON!! **_YOU JUST PUT IT ALL INTO YOUR GODDAMN REGISTER!!"

"When wuzzat?"

Sombrero joined Jagged in his vulgar tirade.

The door to the gun shop flew open again, and a man – a rather unnotable-looking panda – stood in the doorway, holding a pistol. He wore a gold badge on his shirt, and it became more than evident to Jag in a split-second that the fellow was supposed to be the closest thing the town had to law enforcement. He didn't look like someone who would be all that good at the job, but there had to be someone. If only he had some friends with him, perhaps the town might not be too bad a place. But then all the deadbeats would have just made some other poor pisshole its club of operations. "Nobody move. Who's the mangy sonofabitch who just robbed Annie next door?"

The two obscene gunslingers stopped what they were doing, but Jagged was the only one who settled down. Sombrero obviously didn't take well to people who didn't mind their own beeswax. "Who the hell asked you!?"

Jagged started to wonder if he should get around to taking the wanted bandito down, but Sombrero was small-fry. The hell with him. If the local police could handle it, he wouldn't get his hands dirty with the funny little fellow. He was way too high on the food chain for that. And if he made a wrong move, Johnny Law might have tried to put a bullet in him, and he wasn't interested in having that happen.

"I'm gonna assume it was you," fumed the short arm of the law, keeping the pistol trained on the psycho lizard. "Now drop that gunbelt and keep your hands where I can see 'em. I just got done cleanin' up a real mess down at Chip's, and I'm not in the mood for somebody givin' me gusto."

The mad, bloodshot stare from under the brim of the bone-white sombrero could have frozen water. "I'm afraid I'm in a givin' mood tonight."

The panda could only stare back.

Sombrero drew so fast that Jag didn't get moving until the shot had been fired. The situation had spiraled down so quickly that he was caught totally off-guard. He'd figured the gila monster to be a talker before he did his killing, but the outlaw was probably so used to the horrible things he did that talking and taunting had become boring and cliché. Further evidence of his hard-earned proficiency lay in the fact that the lawman had had his gun trained on the bandito even before being shot at. If that bandage had anything to do with Fang, Jagged felt something inside him shrink. Even while he dropped his new box and lunged over a counter, he chastised himself for letting Sombrero screw around for the last few minutes doing whatever he'd pleased.

The lawman was falling back and clutching the side of his belly. Jag didn't have enough time to tell where the man had been hit, but maybe after he got down to business, he'd have the chance to make certain the guy was okay. With any luck he'd be wearing a bullet-proof vest under that shirt, but he heavily doubted it, considering the town's utter crappiness. Sombrero was lining up for another shot when the hyena hurriedly raised back up over the counter, drawing his sidearm and pointing it straight at the gila monster. "Drop that gun, asshole! Federal agent!"

He realized he may as well have painted a huge bullseye target onto his face, because that was all the reasoning Sombrero needed to whip around, a harried look in his wild eyes. _BANG _came a fast shot at Jag's skull, and the hyena dropped himself down below the counter again, unable to return the favor.

Another blast thundered into the room from the downed lawman. It must have missed Sombrero by what probably felt like a centimeter. The lizard ducked instinctively and pulled from its holster his second gun, and chaos ensued as he let loose a suppressive volley of lead at both his oppressors, shooting in two different directions at once while skittering backwards.

Jag was stuck where he was, feeling bullets snap past him and pound through the wooden walls above his head. He heard a crash, and looked up just in time to see the gila monster land outside, the crazy little bastard having just jumped through one of the store's big, wide glass windows. How Sombrero'd ever had the balls or strength to do something like that was beyond him, until he remembered the entire town was one gust of wind from falling apart entirely. The hyena burst up from where he was hiding, bolting towards the open door. "YOU LITTLE SONOFAWHORE, GET BACK H—"

_Thunk _went his big black boot into the lawman once he was outside, sending Jagged falling flat onto his face with an even louder crashing noise. "_Oomffgh!_"

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Sombrero dashing toward a white airbike – it seemed like _everybody _was using the damn things these days. Jagged pushed himself to his feet and started to race after him when the gila monster slowed dramatically, turned, and raised one of his silver semiautos at the hyena again.

"_Shi--!!_" Jag reacted quickly and pitched himself back toward the open door of the gunshop, and again his foot clobbered into the groaning panda. He sailed face-first onto the ground noisily for a second time as forty-five rounds crashed and ricocheted about above him, sending wood chips splattering everywhere, including on top of his furry frame. "Damnit!"

There was a pause in the bedlam, prompting him to his feet once again. A quick peek from behind the doorway showed the gila monster was already on top of his speedy vehicle and kicking it to life, and Jagged gripped his gun tighter. _Oh hell no!_

He took aim at the distant outlaw, but Sombrero was already roaring forward and away from the store by the time he was able to get a good bead on the fleeing fugitive. It only took a second for the lizard to disappear from sight behind a building, the loud whine of the airbike's engines evaporating further with every passing second. Jagged kicked the wall, the adrenaline in him still rushing through his veins. "Bastard!"

Damn it all to damnation and back. Jagged was sorely tempted to hit his own airbike and race after the little bastard, but the machine was getting too low on gasoline to fare well in an arduous chase across the Sand Hill desert. Sombrero was only worth five thousand dollars anyway, though he suspected that number would be increasing given what had just transpired. That still didn't make the effort worth it. But when he thought of Sombrero's connection to Dry Horn the Bison, who had just been wasted – most likely, anyway – by Fang the Sniper, Jag almost felt his head explode.

Sombrero had been here for a reason. It had to have something to do with Fang. He couldn't put the pieces together yet, but he felt a lot of his vigor come back. The trail wasn't cold yet.

Jagged re-entered the store, looking at the seated bear and wondering if he'd even tried to get into cover during the fight – Jag had been too pre-occupied to bother noticing. "Hey!"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for the help, dickwad. It was really nice of you to sit there on your fat ass and not pick up one of these guns and shoot that crazy little fucker. I really appreciate that."

"Y'all welcome."

Jagged frothed. He started to check on the lawman, but suddenly his cell phone rang, prompting him to grind his teeth in frustration. He flipped it open and placed against his black ear, struggling to ignore the increasing crowd of people who wanted to gawk at the scene of the shootout. "What!?"

_Blah-blah-blah what the hell are you doing _sounded noisily through the phone.

"I'm riding the fucking merry-go-round at Carnival Island. What the hell do you _think _I'm doing!?"

_Blah-blah give us an update._

"Uh, well, I'm in a little town in Sand Hill. I don't know the name of the place." _Probably Assville, _he thought. "I ran into a little, uh, trouble, and, uh—"

Jagged winced at the yelling that ensued through the little speaker. The town's closest thing to a doctor glanced up at him while helping the panda.

"I know, I know! I just sort of don't have any really good leads, but I think I'm gonna go check out a bar down the street."

_Blah?_

"Hey, bars and pubs are a great place for information. All the locals hang out there and feed off information to kickass heroes like me about what to do next on my adventure. Don't you play video games?"

The next words out of the tiny phone were so loud they might have cracked the glass to Sergeant Baker's window all the way back in Station Square.

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! Look, I'll go down there, I'll find out where Fang the Sniper is, and then I'll go get him! It's that simple. Hell, I might even haul in another bad guy while I'm at it. I guaran-damn-tee I'll give you guys progress. You can count on me."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Jagged lifted his pounding head from the bartop and swung his near-empty glass around, splashing what little contents were left onto the irritable-looking regular sitting on the stool next to him. "You're my besshtest friend in the whole fuggin' world. You know that?"

The man glared at him and said nothing.

"I meaffllptbh." Jagged swung it again violently, fighting the slur that hindered his masterful and eloquent observations. "EVERYBODY's an assh-hole to me. Nobody wantsh to make friendsh with me. But you," and he leaned in closer to the man, "youshflgh—you're a _speshul woman. _Nice 'n' quiet, jus' like they should be. All you need iz a dress and a _wig. _Then you can getcher assh back in the kitchen and get me a _beer._"

Everyone else in the bar was silent and staring at him.

Jagged turned in the other direction, glaring at nothing in particular. "Wa's your problem? I wish alla you would just... shut the fug up. 'N go fist yourselves. Like that fuggin' monkey, or... whatever he was said. Th' guy with the funny hat an' the thing over his face. He'sh a funny guy. An' I let'im get away. 'Cause I'm an assh-hole." His head dipped downwards. "Nobody wantsh to be my friend. Not even the funny guy. He jus' tried to shoot me in'th'head. An' then I got yelled at by my fuggin' dickhead bossh. 'Cause I gotta go find that other guy... Fuggin'... Tooth, or whatever hish name izz an' I keep on fuggin' up."

He stopped waving his glass around and slammed it back down on the bartop. "I hate alla you so fuggin' much. Thish fuggin' town can kissh my rebel butt. I wouldn't date any-a-you if you were the last fuggin' woman on earth. If I wush president of this piece-of-shit commie country, and I had shum nucular launch codes, I'd turn your fuggin' assh-holes into glassh. Thash how much I hate you 'n' yer refusal to take my fuggin' credit carrrghgh." **Thud **went his head against the bartop.

The bartender was watching him. "Y'all say you're lookin' for Fang the Sniper?"

Jagged looked up at the man, eyes red and tired. "Who the fuggin' crap is Fang the Sniper?"

"If you're after that fella, are you expectin' by chance to run into some kangaroos along the way?"

"What the fug is a kangaroo? Some kinda fuggin' giraffe?" _Thump-thump-thump _went his forehead. "Oh man. I am sho fugged up right now."

"Them fellas was here not more than an hour ago," the bartender told him. "They shot up the place and gave a few-a-my regulars an early dirtnap. Seemed to take a mighty interest in Fang the Sniper."

"I don't give a shit." Jagged's aching skull collapsed onto the bartop again.

"They wanted to know where he was headed. He was after some fella too, and they'd both been here earlier. I reckon all of them boys are headed north, 'cause that's where that one other fella was movin'."

"Lemme alone."

"Not a whole lot worth seein' north of here, though. Just lots of desert 'n' mountains. Not much water, either. I'd be mighty grateful if you went out there and put 'em all down. We got enough trouble around here without men like them—"

"SHUT UP!" Jagged yelled, and the bartender was silenced.

After a while, he eventually got enough alcohol out of his brain to realize he'd better get moving. Telling the bartender to put his expenses on 'his tab,' despite the fact he didn't have one and he'd never set foot in this dump again, the hyena was soon off the old, blood-stained stool and making his way outside, where he'd parked Dry Horn's old airbike. Jagged stumbled past people giving him funny looks (a thing he was quite used to by this stage in his life), teetered at the edge of the bar's wooden porch haphazardly, stumbled backwards, teetered again, then hurried down the two or three steps far too quickly and was rewarded with a face full of sand.

"Mmfgh."

When he found the will to get up, he plodded over to the inanimate airbike, tripping four times on the way there, despite how it was only about ten feet from the bar's entrance. Once the five minutes required to get there had passed, he eased into the machine's seat, realized he was sitting backwards, and then turned himself around. The problem with this was that he'd actually gotten it right the first time, and now he really was sitting backwards. He took out his recently-acquired map of Sand Hill and unfolded it frustratedly before examining its content, holding it upside-down the whole time.

"North, huh... North... North _sucks. _Why couldn't it be... uh... what the hell elshe is there? Uh... Shouth-north?"

There was nothing of interest on the map in that direction that he could see, but he had to go. It had to be done. Jagged began to fold the map back up, but found it to be an exceedingly difficult task. He crumpled it up into a ball and shoved it into the airbike's storage compartment, then reached for where he thought the handlebars were and fell forward as a result because he was still sitting backwards on the vehicle. "Damnit. You... jerkwad. I'll kick your fuggin' ass."

Slowly he maneuvered back around and faced the right direction. The machine roared to life and rose into the air slightly. Jagged flashed the rock-and-roll hand gesture to strangers watching him suspiciously. "Gonna catch me a BAD GUY, BABY."

He nicked the throttle, and the airbike screamed forward, sending itself and rider crashing through the wooden outside walls of the bar and into the interior loudly, hurtling wood, dirt, dust, and termites flying in a million different directions.

"Ow."


	10. On a Lark

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Ten – On a Lark--**

"Bill!" shouted Sergeant Baker from his messy, smelly office. The Station Square police department was busier than ever for some reason that night, and his big, huge, manly body needed caffeine. A lot of it. "Coffee!"

"Yes, sir," sighed Officer Bill from his desk for the twenty-eighth time since he'd arrived at work. He too was sorely busy, and hearing Baker scream at him every fifteen minutes wasn't doing nice things to his health and state of mind.

"Extra cream and sugar!"

"Why don't you shove it up your ass, Sarge," muttered the severely overworked policeman, just quiet enough to keep his superior from understanding.

"WHAT?" yelled Baker. "I CAN'T **HEAR YOU,** DAMN IT!"

"YES, SIR!" was the response. Officer Bill looked at the gun in his holster and thought about the many uses he could put it to.

"You have to _SPEAK UP! _Nobody can understand you when you talk like you're a mouse who just got caught with cheese in his face! I swear, Bill, did you even graduate from the goddamned academy? They're supposed to teach you how to speak with authority! Use your voice for a change! You've gotta grow some balls! Talk back to people! Otherwise, they'll walk all over you!"

Officer Bill muttered some unintelligible obscenity.

"_WHAT!?_"

"YES, SIR!"

Sergeant Baker leaned back in his massive leather chair and rocked. There was a stack of paper on his desk almost an inch-and-a-half thick, a documentation of that year's activity in the police force, including improvements, arrests, and most importantly, information on any monetary transactions the department had made. The file had grown over the year until it was the monster that threateningly loomed before Baker's fat visage. Captain Lipton had decreed him worthy of handling the nuisance of overseeing the file and making sure everything involved was in line. It was no secret in the precinct that Lipton did not like Baker, and vice-versa, but the Sergeant's options for retaliation were seriously limited. He had contemplated shoving the file into Bill's hands and delegating the whole thing to him, but Lipton had foreseen that possibility already and specifically forbidden it, much to Baker's irritation.

He had only made a tiny, almost immeasurable dent in the file by then. He'd already gone through three sodas and a carton of cigarettes that had belonged to Bill. The point of the file was lost to him, especially since the department had people who handled this garbage, but apparently, they were all conveniently off on vacations to Casino Night or some other overrated dump. That just figured, Baker thought as he skimmed through the rest of the file and glowered at everything he saw.

He was just getting ready to scream at slowpoke Bill when the officer finally entered the office unceremoniously with a small cup of steaming caffeine. "It's about time," Baker groused.

"You're welcome," mumbled Officer Bill, shuffling over the desk as slowly as he could without getting Baker wound up over it.

Baker grabbed the cup from Bill's hand. "Where's the cream and sugar?"

"It's already in there." Bill made no attempt to hide the hateful glare on his face.

"Where's the honey?"

Bill's glare intensified. "_What _honey?"

"The honey! Where is it!?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Who in the hell put honey in their coffee? You were supposed to do that with tea.

"I can't have any goddamn coffee without _honey! _What the hell is wrong with you? Haven't you ever had coffee before!? You know I need honey in here when I've got all this hard work to do!"

"You didn't _ask _for honey," countered the officer through clenched teeth.

"Yes I did!"

"No you _didn't._"

"Yes, I _did!_"

"NO YOU _DIDN'T._" Bill's pupils dilated.

"Ye—" The obnoxious, old-fashioned buzzer on Baker's desk rang noisily. Baker slapped a fat finger onto a well-worn button. "I'm _BUSY!_"

"I have a reply from GUN for you," said Secretary Doris. She was filling in for Secretary Josie, who was using the absence of the department's money punchers as an excuse to take a well-earned vacation from the building, Baker, and Bill's charmless advances.

"Bill, go get it."

Bill stood there, then conceded and left the room, if just to get Baker out of his line of sight for a few moments.

Earlier that morning, Baker had gone to Doris and told her to take a letter for him. At first she had flatly refused and told him to write it himself, but Baker's incessant bitching and moaning had driven her crazy within seconds, and he was barely competent enough to write something that wouldn't embarrass the department anyway, so she had resigned to her fate. The e-mail had directly asked in no pleasant terms the status of their agent in the field who was tracking Nack the Weasel, a subject Baker wanted closed, and fast. He had not heard one word from either the agent or the three bounty hunters he had sent off after the little weasel-wolf himself, and that made him antsy. Baker could have gotten hold of the GUN agent himself, but between that scalawag and the agency he worked for, GUN was a lesser poison, and he'd actually forgotten the guy's phone number anyway.

Bill returned and handed Baker a printed copy of the reply e-mail. Baker snatched it with no word of thanks and began to read while Bill assumed a seat in front of the desk.

_Dear Sergeant Whatever-your-name-is,_

_We have maintained periodic contact with our agent in the field since the beginning of this operation. He is currently investigating the possibility that Fang the Sniper is tracking Claw the Mole and his men. He has reason to believe Fang the Sniper is currently located in Sand Hill based on information and evidence he has obtained. Thank you for your interest in overseeing how well we do our jobs. Please tell Secretary Josie and your mother that we said hello, and that you're movin' in with your auntie and your uncle in Bel-Air._

_Love, GUN_

Baker crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it into the garbage pail near his recycle bin. "Pricks."

Bill rolled his eyes.

"All of 'em are just a bunch of assholes. Especially that agent they've got working for them. The fellow who showed his ugly face here. I'll be a sonofabitch if he didn't reach a level of asshole only few can hope to achieve in a thousand lifetimes. And criminy, did he smell. Probably hadn't looked at a shower in years. What the hell was his name, Bill? He was some kind of dog or cat or something. James? Jimbo?"

"He was a hyena, and his name was 'Jagged,' sir."

"That wasn't it!"

Bill sighed.

Baker leaned back in his seat, causing the unfortunate thing to squeak louder than ever. He rocked back and forth, his swaying girth sending noticeable ripples through the atmosphere while the chair beneath him groaned helplessly like it were being put through some kind of torture session. He watched nothing in particular, struggling to put his brain to good use. "Claw the Mole... Claw the Mole. Why does that name sound familiar?"

"Wanted criminal," Bill said, wondering how this big, fat idiot couldn't know who that was, especially since Baker had sent Jagged some information about him. "His poster was in here on your wall for a while, in case you've forgotten. He tried to rob a bank a while back. Messed up big-time. Some people paid the price for his mistakes; couple of children, I think. The department put out a bounty on him not long afterwards."

"How much?" The sergeant took a long swig of coffee, savoring the taste, regardless of its lack of beloved honey.

"Three hundred thousand dollars."

Baker spewed the contents of his mouth all over the file he'd been working on and jolted to his feet. "_Three hundred thousand dollars!!_"

"That's correct, sir."

"What stupid dumb cracked-up twinkle-toed shit-for-brains put a three hundred thousand dollar bounty on that worthless deadbeat!?"

"You did, sir."

"I'm not stupid enough to make a decision as retarded as that one! I'll bet it was that miserable sonofawhore Lipton!"

"No, _you _did it, sir. You did it because your mother had just opened a savings account there and had her down payment of ten dollars taken because of the heist."

"Bullshit! You're probably in on this, too! I can't trust any of you grab-assing dumbasses with _anything!_"

Bill sighed.

"Three hundred grand!" Baker cried. "_Three hundred! _What the hell kind of crazy-ass psycho would do that? Who the hell thinks we've got that kind of money here? All these damned bounty hunters are wringing us dry of cash already!"

Bill shook his head and watched helplessly.

"What in the hell are we supposed to do if that furry little fuck _catches _him and brings him back _here!?_" the Sarge yelled with a wave of his hands, splashing the rest of his coffee onto the carpet floor. "We don't have that kind of money! He'll kill us all! Hell, he already tried to!"

"He did?" Bill blinked.

"Well, I mean—" Baker remembered he hadn't told anyone about Fang's recent appearance and threats in that very office. The demand from Fang about keeping quiet burned to life in his memory, and he almost choked on his tongue right then and there. "It's just that when he stole all that money, that was a way of offing us, right? Put us all out of a job, I mean."

Bill stared at him as though that were the stupidest thing he'd ever heard.

"What!?" Baker growled.

"Nothing, Sarge."

"Up yours, Bill. I'm this close to getting an ulcer," said the sergeant, eager to change the subject. "With any luck, the agent will hurry the hell up and finish Nack the Weasel off. I'm already up to my ass in debt because of both those little pricks. I should just retire early."

_I wish, _thought Bill. "What about those three other bounty hunters you hired? The smarmy kangaroo guys."

Baker was immediately suspicious. "What about them?"

"Didn't you tell them that you were going to pay them each thirty thousand dollars if they caught Fang the Sniper?"

Baker stared at him, slack-jawed.

"HOW THE HELL DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT!?" he yelled.

"Well, you're so _loud, _it's a wonder the whole city doesn't know. Did you even have the department's authorization to make that kind of deal?"

"**NO** I DIDN'T HAVE THE STUPID DEPARTMENT'S AUTHORIZATION!!" Baker's neck turned a deep purple.

"What are you going to do if those guys come back here with Fang's head on a stick? They're going to be awful curious as to where their money is. And I don't think they're the kind of people who have a lot of reservations about putting all those guns they had on them to use, too. They look like the sort of folks who shoot at stray dogs and the elderly to practice their aim."

"Don't you get smart with me! I know what I'm doing, and I don't have to listen to your smarmy commentary to get through this... this... _stupid crap! _I'll think of something!"

Bill crossed his arms and watched Baker. "What about _Jimbo?_ How much are you paying him if he seals the deal?"

"I, uh, I don't... Hell, I don't even remember—"

"It was thirty thousand, right?"

"I _don't know!_"

"And you told him that this department had a hundred thousand dollars stolen from it by Fang, when we're lucky if we have _five _thousand in the bank now because of all these ego-centric man-hunters collecting bounties."

"Why don't you _shut up!?_"

"You're telling me," Bill said, leaning forward, "that you lied about our funding to a GUN agent, that you offered to pay him thirty thousand dollars, that you offered to pay the other three hunters ninety thousand dollars, that you somehow have to come up with three hundred thousand dollars in case they all screw up, and that you didn't have authorization to do any of these things?"

Baker stood motionlessly, gawking at Bill and looking very much like a deer staring down an eighteen wheeler going eighty miles an hour. His eyeballs grew larger every second.

"Wow," exulted Bill, thoroughly enjoying this. "You're in deep shit, Sergeant Baker."

Baker was still silent, but he had an expression on his face that all but said he'd like to walk over to Bill and rip out all his vital organs. He grabbed at the brown hair on his head and pulled while fighting as hard as he ever had to figure out how to correct all these damned complications the officer had produced. "I don't deserve this. I'm a twenty-two year veteran of this department. I've got a wife and kids. A mortgage. A high phone bill..."

Bill sighed and prayed for Baker to quit rambling.

"... a car I'm still trying to pay off, insurance payments out my ass, a big, fat, stupid, still-growing bill because I never took those DVDs back to the rental store, and I'm a good goddamn man of the faith! This is _bullshit! _I don't believe this! Five dickhead mongrels who would like nothing better to then to shoot up this whole miserable world when they find out we don't have their money. What the hell am I gonna do?"

"Gee, Sarge, I just don't know. I guess you're proper fuc—"

Suddenly Baker stopped his pacing about, as though a switch had just been flipped in his skull, lighting a labyrinth of black tunnels inside. "Wait a minute. Just hold on for a second. I'm not approaching this correctly at all."

Bill too was quickly suspicious, and he felt his elation fade. "How's that?"

"If something were to happen to Nack that made him, oh, I don't know, not exist anymore—"

"What!?" cried Bill, looking at Baker like the man had just sprouted a second head.

"What?" repeated Baker with a huge shrug of his shoulders.

"Sir, you can't put out a _hit _on the guy! Have you lost your mind? We're trying to catch him, not waste him! Not to mention he's half the reason crime isn't as prevalent as it could be. He helps get the scum off our streets so we don't have to."

"Do you have a better idea, Bill?" spat Baker, a frown burrowing into his brow. "One that won't get this station burned to the ground by some pissed-off bounty hunters who have so little regard for life, it's a wonder they even care about their own? Maybe I could just give them _your _paycheck! Since you're so goddamn inept, you can't even bring a guy some honey when he asks for it. It's a miracle you can find your way out of bed in the morning. I don't think you could locate your balls with a map and a flashlight."

"You _don't _have to do that, sir," replied the officer. Bill felt like his whole body was deflating. "But pulling a stunt like that would be the biggest breach of ethics you could attempt, and you've already done some major breaching of ethics by using the department's money in your deal-making with these bounty hunters. There's got to be some way you can come up with the money to avoid having to go that route. I don't know. Sell your car, take out another mortgage on your home."

"_Three hundred thousand dollars, _Bill!"

"I know, I know." Bill leaned forward again, keeping his voice down. "But you can't end a person's life over money. We're not the mob."

"It's the only way to insure our safety. Putting that kind of thing into motion isn't as hard as your brainless head might think. There are men out there who will do that kind of work for peanuts. We just have to get hold of them somehow."

_We? _thought Bill. "You think an assassin is going to try and kill _Fang the Sniper _for peanuts?"

"Why do you keep calling him that?"

Bill sighed yet again.

"I'm not talking about an assassin," Baker continued. "Assassins cost too damn much, and you can't trust them anyway. They're too smart compared to who I'm considering. I'm talking about low-life deadbeats, dregs of society who claw their way through life with nothing but a gun and a dollar in their pocket. Scumbags who get their courage through liquor and then gun down a banker for looking at them wrong. They're exactly the sort of thugs we can depend on to pull this off." Baker thought a moment. "You say the department's got at least five thousand dollars?"

"We'd know for certain if you'd ever finish working on that file on your desk."

"I want you to put out an A.P.B. to Sand Hill's capital tomorrow morning, first thing."

"Does that place even _have _a capital?" asked Bill. He'd never been to Sand Hill, but all he knew about it was that it was basically the sole epitome of _shithole._

"Of course it does. It's, uh—" Baker thought for a long while. "Oh, hell. Just find a damn map of it and see what it is. I want every slimeball in that God-forsaken wasteland to know that there's a death sentence on Nack the Weasel's head, and the first individual to put a bullet in it gets five thousand dollars, cash. I know how that place operates – word'll get around fast."

"You think this is going to work? Nobody will want to take on that guy."

"For five thousand dollars, they will. Think about it, Bill. In that kind of environment, a man's pride is all he's got. Nobody would normally test their shooting hands against Nack the Weasel. He's just too damn good with a gun. But put some money on the table, and suddenly a whole lot of folks will feel their balls get bigger. The idea of being the one who shot Nack the Weasel will sound a lot nicer with a reward of five grand to go with it."

Bill shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "That's all the money we've got left, Sarge. Every single person above you is going to have kittens when they take a look at our bank account. Not to mention, the mayor and everyone else with the city are gonna spontaneously combust when they find out they have to deal with this mess."

"Don't remind me. It's better than the alternative."

Bill watched him. He didn't want to get involved in this at all, but he felt inclined to anyway for some reason. Maybe it was the mental image of his police station completely on fire. "Are you sure about this, Sarge? It's a big step to take."

Baker nodded. "It's the only way, Bill. I've gotten us all into a terrible situation, and now I have to get us out of it somehow. It's my responsibility."

A shudder-inducing moment of stillness hung in the air. There was one more thing Bill felt he had to remind Baker of, something much worse than anything else he'd yet mentioned.

"Sergeant," Bill said quietly, "I know you probably already realize it, but when all those bounty hunters you hired find out you did this, they're not going to be happy."

Baker was silent.

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, Bill."

* * *

A light Sand Hill wind ruffled Fang's sand-swept fur, prompting a fierce glower that was directed up into the dark sky. The desert zone's nights were _cold, _and save for his blanket, he had not thought to bring any kind of protection against this harsh environment, save for the gun in his holster, which only served to quell other annoyances with weapons and didn't help against the frostbite-inducing bitterness of the atmosphere. Only his violet coating kept his recent case of the sniffles from coming back to haunt him.

He'd stopped after putting a good ten miles between him and the town, but now he had little to go on. He'd been told that Claw – or someone who looked like Claw, anyway – had been headed north, where nothing but death lay waiting for anyone stupid enough to set foot in such harsh wilderness. Much of Sand Hill was unexplored territory, as it was socially popular only for overly-hyper teenagers who enjoyed boarding down some of its towering mountains, and everyone else here was only present because they had to be, whether by business or hard luck. Fang had been in worse places, so he didn't mind the mediocre situation as much as he would have otherwise, but it still left a foul, morbid feeling within him.

He took care to make sure his little camp was situated where a fire wouldn't be presentable to anyone lingering around in the near vicinity, as he stopped himself by another of Sand Hill's towering rock formations. The fire itself had to be small, but it did its job, which was to heat some of the canned goods Fang kept in the _Queen _for instances just like this. The food wasn't stellar, but he didn't fuss about that sort of thing anymore. He usually ate whatever was in front of him without complaints these days, since he was too poor as of late to enjoy the swankiness of anything better than the pork and beans he ate directly from the can after it had warmed significantly. A sorely average, typical dinner for Fang the Sniper. That was the way it was in the badlands.

Afterwards, he struggled to entertain himself with a book he'd been trying to read every so often for the last six months, but he only managed four paragraphs before getting frustrated with the lack of light and uneasiness that came with being so vulnerable in the dead of night. Besides, the wind kept slapping sand into his eyes, so he eventually threw the old, worn novel back in the _Queen _and curled uncomfortably under the freezing blanket to try and at least get a few hours' rest.

He succeeded in getting maybe half that. Between the immense feeling of loneliness, the sprawling environment full of nothingness, the freezing atmosphere, the unnerving noise of the wind, the sand brushing over him, and the deathly black darkness all around him, he could not remember being more miserable. It was a man's duty to endure whatever was thrown at him with as much of a stone jaw and leather face as he could manage, but Fang knew that even he had a limit. If he didn't find that little bastard mole soon, he didn't doubt the possibility of his soul curling up and dying after having enough with the little exploits his body attempted.

He would have given anything for a decent bed and room. It would have been nice to get one back at the town, but that mangy hedgehog kid had put any chance of that to a halt. Part of Fang wished he'd just shot the little prick, but he didn't like to kill unless he had to, or he were thoroughly pissed off. He wasn't quite pissed off enough to go back there and do it, too. Maybe somebody else would finish the job for him, though. His thinking got the better of him, and he woke up various times through the night. He eventually took to sitting before the fire after he'd taken great effort in getting it going again.

Fang glanced at the bandage on his arm, where a stray round from the hedgehog had grazed him. He found himself watching it a good long while.

There were a lot of ways a fellow could just disappear in this line of work. The Sand Hill environment helped that a lot, too. The harshness of being a bounty hunter, a lifestyle that set its own regulations and morals, ate up people like a grinder. He'd run into every speck of low-gene life he could ever imagine coming across. Drug addicts, drunkards, killers, gunfighters. All of them, it seemed to him, were soulless creatures who made the world a worse place with their existences. Their presence made the land a more dangerous place. If a man didn't succumb to the terrible hate of these lowlifes, there were a thousand other things that could go wrong. Bounty hunting, except in a few rare cases such as Claw the Mole, was more often than otherwise not particularly prosperous work. People did it because they knew nothing else, and could do nothing else, and few were born with the survival skills needed for this occupation. There were so many ways a man could die.

Fang the Sniper, however, had built up a reputation as being too tough to kill. He had faced every hazard he'd come across and lived to tell the tale. His exploits were so widely-known that someone who didn't know Fang the Sniper was a rarer sight than solid gold. People he had never met hated him for what he did, just because he did it so well. The very mention of his name was like a saber to the heart of badmen everywhere. Some said he was invincible, and he didn't go out of his way to dispel those claims.

He knew the truth, though. A man didn't go through this lifestyle without taking his share of bruises, and while they healed on the outside, inside they all added up over time. Fang grimaced at the pain the wound produced. He might have been tough, but he had not built up a tolerance for pain, pain that was propagated by everything that had happened to him. In the last few days, he'd almost been blown up by grenades, almost shot a kangaroo, broken into a police station, threatened a man of authority, destroyed a bison with a grenade of his own, shot a lizard, almost been crushed under a mountain, been shot at himself and hit, hadn't eaten anything worth a damn, and his legs still hurt. Anyone else might have croaked under the pressure, but Fang had somehow handled it without dropping dead. He didn't know how, though.

Maybe he didn't want to know how. The possibilities made him uncomfortable. And more uncomforting was the knowledge that sooner or later, someone else was going to come along – someone who wanted a fight. Someone who was faster, younger. Someone who was better than him, and would beat him. It was inevitable, because that was the way the world worked. He was a very mortal man, and he knew the world would prove it someday.

He watched the fire a little longer, feeling some part of him erode as he did so.

_What am I doing? _he thought to himself.

It was around half-past four in the morning when he decided he felt too melancholy to sleep any longer than he already had. Not only that, but when he bothered glancing at the skies, he realized they were no longer completely black, but instead were a dark gray hue. Five seconds after he'd discovered that, he was treated to a sudden downpour that not only soaked he and his blanket like they'd both just been thrown in a lake, but also somehow made things even colder than they already were.

"Rrgh," was all he said.

He packed up what little gear he'd set about the small camp. On to the airbike he sat, and stuffing his hat harder into his head, he spared one long glare at the storming skies, then started up the _Marvelous Queen _and rode hard.

* * *

The town of New Mettle was so far north of where Fang had been that few people in Sand Hill even knew of its existence, but it turned out that it was the closest thing to a capital that the zone had, despite its inherent worthlessness. It was bigger than the nameless wonder the bounty hunter had had the pleasure of visiting earlier, but not by enough to constitute a better opinion of it. The obligatory hellhole for drunkards still reigned supreme, but there were a few small casinos (that entombed little more than a few slot machines and some poker and blackjack tables; they were visited mainly because the hellhole was always full and they had their own bars), a full-blown town constable building (which consisted of two rooms and a jail cell), a post office, and even a bank. Civilization had yet to really prosper in Sand Hill, as South Island's level of society fluctuated as visibly as the lands themselves, but New Mettle was the most well-off dump in the zone.

It had formed itself only recently, after five young friends had grown sick of Dr. Eggman's constant and obnoxious meddling in South Island's affairs, and they had sought to shut themselves from society as best they could, hoping its nuances wouldn't care enough to bring themselves to such a lowly and hopeless place. Instead, this premise had attracted various kinds of people looking for the same things in life, but somehow or another, it eventually molded into yet another violent, crazy, drunk-off-its-rear-end town that didn't have a name worth the breath it took to say it. That was just the way Sand Hill was.

Why it was even called New Mettle was anybody's guess. Rumors abounded that the five founders all had suggestions for the name, but hadn't been able to agree on what it should have been, so they'd written their suggestions down, dumped them in a hat, and picked one out. Apparently, the others had been _San Morales,_ which wasn't particularly better or worse than New Mettle as far as the villagers could tell, _Lake Emerald, _which was just stupid for a place like this, _Antonio Banderas,_ which was treated as a thoroughly confusing addition, and _Eggbeater McWaffleville, _a suggestion only a select few appreciated. But it was New Mettle, and that was that.

Because it was bigger than Sand Hill's other toughspots, it was naturally a nest for even more unsavory types enjoying a way of life that didn't live by the law. Fights broke out regularly in the bars. Men carried guns and pulled the triggers while bearing little reason for doing so. The dead man's hand was a staple of the casino card games. New Mettle only served to emphasize the stark contrast between Sand Hill and the rest of South Island, where life was greener, happier, and filled with fewer assholes.

It also attracted wanderers. Zipp the Coyote was one such wanderer, or as he himself put it, a _steely-eyed, mysterious stranger-drifter kinda fellow. _He considered himself a man of the west and its wilderness, and he thrived in an environment like this, or he at least tried to. He was a bounty hunter by trade, a job he wasn't particularly good at, but he'd made an average living off it thus far in his life. He'd been hunting some loser a month before when the search had brought him to New Mettle, where a delightful young lass named Roxy had been smitten with him, or so he'd thought. Out had come his pair of six-guns as he hadn't been able to resist putting on a whirlin', twirlin' show for her, and when the town council had seen that, they'd pinned a badge on his chest and offered him a lawjob since apparently nobody else wanted it.

"Oh, I dunno about that," he had said at the time.

"Well, why in the hell not?" they had asked, ready to lynch him if he didn't take the job.

"'Cause I'm a _drifter. _The call of that wide, open wilderness is too great for a man of my rugged stature, because when a man gets a taste of _the west _in his blood, it's like sucking back on a cactus that'll never again see the light of day, I tell you what. That open range questions the valor and guts of a man who wonders if he's true to his nature, and when he's out there and the hard labor of the journey looks him straight in the eye, he's gotta spit right back in theirs, and _blah blah blah, etcetera etcetera..._"

Those who had been listening had started falling asleep where they stood around there, so anything Zipp had said next was speculation to anyone but himself.

Being the town's only policeman – Zipp liked to call himself 'Town Marshal' – wasn't too hard. All he had to do was wander around once in a while, making it look like he was on patrol or whatever. Maybe stand bow-legged once in a while. And when people out there got a look at those two six-guns of his, they right up went and booked it straight out of town, for Zipp the Coyote was fast on the draw (and, as everyone in town well knew, faster with his mouth). He also was one of many brazen individuals out there who claimed to do their killing 'before breakfast,' as opposed to all the youngsters who did theirs 'after breakfast,' which was why he was up at four-thirty in the morning when, in the brick police building, when there came a noisy ringing of his telephone, a device that was so old and decrepit it was a miracle it didn't fall apart as soon as it started screaming.

Zipp kicked his feet up onto the desk and plucked the receiver off the hook, slapping it against his pointy light pastel blue ear and leaning back in his Official Town Marshal Seat, not realizing how close his six-shooters came to falling straight out of the leather holsters on his gunbelt as he did so. "Marshal _el Terriblé de la Zipp _speakin'. Who's feeling Zippity this mornin'?"

"Who in the world is this?" asked the unfamiliar voice.

"Marshal _el Terriblé de la Zipp _speakin'."

"That's just great. My name is Officer Bill Billings with the Station Square Police Department. Please listen to m—"

"The what?" asked Zipp while rubbing his eyelids, still tired given the early hours he had to be up at. He usually woke up at four and had to be here at the office thirty minutes later. Why couldn't it have been Roxy instead? Nevermind the fact he hadn't seen her since the day he'd met her.

The other line paused after the question had been asked.

"The _Station Square Police Department,_" enunciated Officer Bill.

"Where's that?"

There was an even longer moment of silence on the other end. "Station Square."

"Oh." Zipp rubbed his eyelids again. "... Where's that?"

And yet again, an even _longer _silence.

"You've," Bill sputtered, "you've never heard of _Station Square?_"

"Is it some kinda bus station shaped like a square? I gotta say, partner, that's a pretty silly name. Y'all coulda just named it _Bus Station Seven._"

"I can't believe you don't know what Station Square is," Bill stated, incredulous. "That's unreal. That's unbelievable."

"Well, lemme tell you somethin', Mr. Big City Police Man Officer. Out here, a real man doesn't need to know trivial crap like that. Here in _the west, _he runs his life by the rules of the wilderness, with nothin' but the sun at his back and his horse under his balls. Just the two of you out in the wild of ol' mother earth at her damndest, takin' some tough hits and battlin' tougher beasts with your only friends bein' your guns and the gravel in your guts—"

"Who in the name of God am I speaking to? You're some kind of authority figure, right? I didn't dial a wrong number, did I?"

"What parta _Marshal _did you not hear, sonny?" Zipp was actually younger than Bill, but he didn't know that.

"You're a Marshal? What? They don't have Marshals these days. Put an officer or a sergeant or somebody on the line."

"Can't," stated Zipp bluntly.

"Well, why not?"

"Ain't got no deputies."

"What!?"

"Yep." Zipp examined his rough brown leather gloves boredly while a drunkard outside the building hooted and hollered at the moon. "Not too many folks wishin' to put their lives on the line for a place like this. I do this 'cause a man of _the west _has gotta have a steadfast hand of justice, a hand that _deals _justice to any yankee lowlife lookin' to put the moves on his guns and his women—"

"What in the _holy hell _are you talking about?" asked Bill.

"Y'need a dictionary or somethin'? I'm pretty sure we're speakin' the same language."

"I'm not so certain about that. You can't possibly be a man of the law. I've never heard of anything like this. I didn't study criminal justice for four years just to listen to this mockery of our justice system."

That got Zipp wound up. "Lemme tell you somethin', rookie—"

"Oh God," Bill whined, "spare me."

"Out here in _the west, _all you boys with your _rules _and your _regulations _and your _don't fire until a theat is thoroughly assessed, _I tell you what, out here you draw your gun on a man, you _shoot _him. You hesitate like a green-skin tinhorn and you get a bullet right in the skullpipe."

"What the hell is a skullpipe? Am I really speaking to a police officer? Are you on some kind of medication?"

"What do you want, anyhow? We're awful busy out here in dead man's land while you sit there on your big city seat drinkin' high-priced coffee. A real man don't need none-a-that crap. Except when he's had a hard of day of ropin', of course."

Officer Bill seemed to collect himself via a very deep breath and a sigh, before he finally began speaking again. "Listen carefully. We've been—"

"Alrighty," interjected Zipp.

Officer Bill paused again for a very long time.

"We've been dealing with a big problem for the last few days, constituted by none other than Fang the Sniper. Long story short—"

"Who?" interrupted Zipp yet again.

Bill's exasperated shock could be felt all the way from Station Square, wherever that was.

"_What?_" cried the officer into the phone.

Zipp tipped back the fancy red cowboy hat on top of his skull, adjusting his booted feet as they lay on his messy desk that was already furnished to the brim with various old west memorabilia. "He some kinda outlaw?"

"No, he's not an outlaw! He's a bounty hunter! For the love of everything holy, how could you not know who Fang the Sniper is? He's regarded as one of the greatest bounty hunters in history. He's one of the most notorious men in the world. He's got the hat, the guns, the mean look in his eye, the—"

"Sounds like an outlaw to me, tinhorn."

"I can't believe you don't know who Fang the Sniper is. I can't freaking believe you don't know where Station Square is."

"Well, I ain't never heard-a-them, so you just behave yourself, city boy. He must not be too important if I don't know him. And I tell you what, not too much gets by old Zipp the Coyote. I was born with the eyes of a hawk and the ass of an armadillo. I can ride that saddle until any lesser man feels his hide tanned by the cruel nature of the wild—"

"That's," Bill mumbled, "that's fabulous. Now will you please listen to what I have to say? I really have a lot of work to be doing—"

"BILL!" came a horrible yell from somewhere in the background. "COFFEE!"

"_Ugh,_" sighed the officer.

Zipp poked at his little black nose. "What'd you say your name was again? It was George Somethin', right?"

"My name— Are you _joking?_" asked Bill, incredulous. His tone indicated he couldn't remember being so appalled during a telephone conversation. "I'm police officer Bill Billings with the _Station Square Police Department._ I don't believe this."

"You sure seem uppity for a lawman." Zipp flicked a piece of dirt off the tip of his boot, ignoring an explosive, booming gunshot that seemed to originate from a bar down the street before it sent a thunderous shiver through his beloved Marshal's Office. "A fella like you wouldn't last two seconds out here, I'd say. Out here in _the west, _a man's gotta know when to talk and he's gotta know when to pull his irons and go in blastin' with no mercy or regard for innocent life—"

"Please," Bill begged, "just stop."

"Stop what? You're the most utterly nonsensical fella I've had to talk to in months. Start makin' some sense of yourself already. I don't have time for small-talkin' small-timers."

"Listen. Please, just stop and listen." Bill sounded like he wanted to cry. "Fang the Sniper came here a number of days ago, and because he wanted more money for a bounty he'd brought in to us earlier, he took off with a great deal of our cash against our wishes. Not only that, but he threatened various officers of the law in the process. We're putting a warrant out on him with a five thousand dollar reward, and we have reason to believe he's in Sand Hill, so we decided to issue an A.P.B. to it. I'm going to assume you need inform—"

"A what?"

Bill paused. "An A.P.B."

"Oh."

"You do know what an A.P.B. is, right?"

"Don't get snarky with me, tinhorn. A good man of justice in _the west_ needs only his wits and his guns about him, for that day when he can go home to his sweetheart Roxy and tell her he's back from that cold, hard trail—"

"You have no idea what an A.P.B. is."

"Must stand for After Police Blow-it, since now you boys are botherin' me to take care of this Fang the Sniper crap. They couldn't catch him over in old Station Square, so now they gotta leave the catchin' to the real men. What do I win?"

"That's not it at all."

Zipp leaned forward. "Listen, bub, I gotta find me an outhouse. Let's ditch the short-talkin' and make this quick, alright?"

"Just hold on a minute—" Bill started.

"Easy. You want this Fang the Sniper fella caught. It can happen in two sexy shakes of a lamb's ass. I'll make up a poster of him and slap it up on the wall outside this here office. That oughta do the trick, 'cause I gotta say, people 'round these parts keep an eye on stuff like that. And if I run across the guy myself, I'll see about slappin' him good with the long hand of the law. Okey-dokey? Talk to you later, city boy."

"Wait, what? No, you need to make a LOT of posters—No! Wait! I still haven't given you his description! He also goes by the name of Na—"

_Slam _went the receiver back down on to the hook. Zipp leaned back further, tipping the chair's legs off the floor. "City boys."

After he did what he said he'd needed to do, he returned to his desk and snatched a sheet of paper before scribbling down a few words on it. When he decided it was as good as he could get it, he hauled himself from his seat and headed out through the building's front-and-only door. Stepping over on the old-fashioned boardwalk to a bulletin board, his obnoxious spurs clanking noisily in the darkness, he slapped the paper up onto the board and stuck a couple of thumbtacks into it. Then he headed back into the office, where he sat down in the chair and caught a well-deserved nap, enjoying pleasant dreams of herding buffalo and shooting cattle.

It wasn't until nearly thirty minutes later that the new wanted poster was noticed, and when eyes saw it, whispers came. The whispers soon turned to talking, and before long, the name of Fang the Sniper dominated the violent town of New Mettle.


	11. Solitary Man

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Eleven – Solitary Man--**

Smiley the Kangaroo didn't particularly enjoy traversing the wastelands at night, so he had opted to find a place to stay after leaving the bar with enough information on Fang to go on for a while. The three kangaroos had roamed the very outskirts of town before finding a building-sized tent full of foreigners who were more than willing to accept money in exchange for a place to stay that night. Shifty hadn't been fond of the idea of staying in town, given what had transpired upon their arrival, but he'd been overruled by both his boss and Speedy, both of whom knew lack of sleep could very well be the beginnings of an untimely demise. Neither of them were concerned over the ramifications of Smiley's actions, especially considering the village's only lawman had just gotten himself shot somehow.

The sleep itself had been surprisingly peaceful. Smiley had them all up by five the next morning, and they spent a well-deserved moment of peace before heading out again. Smiley sat on the bed he'd slept in, sipping at a cup of something hot and watching everything about him silently, including the young ferret who had served him the drink. Shifty was neck-deep in some little handheld video game he took with him everywhere he went. Speedy was somewhere walking around outside the tent enjoying a cigarette. He was not an addict, for he only partook in the joy of smoking once every few weeks as somewhat of a reward to himself for living that much longer. He'd kept the habit under control.

"More coffee?" asked the ferret at one point, watching him carefully.

Smiley shook his head and returned her little smile. He'd caught her eyes on him on more than two occasions since the previous night, enjoying the looks while they lasted. He always seemed to be the one women were drawn to, between the three of them. Although Shifty might have been perceived as the _so-stupid-he's-adorable_ one, he was too much of an idiot to succeed with the ladies, and he had awful manners anyway (plus his breath was commonly mistaken for mustard gas). There was a sense of darkness to Speedy and that could be an exciting thing to some girls, but he seemed to revile all aspects of romance and was too big of an asshole for any kind of relationship but a business one, although Smiley was pretty certain there'd been maybe one or two women before; what happened with that, he didn't know since the other kangaroo had never talked about it. Smiley, though, with his seemingly pleasant personality, light peach-colored fur (in contrast to Speedy's gray and Shifty's dark red) and easy drawl, was the one wall among the trio that was most easily brought down by the other gender, and entertaining such curiosity was a mildly amusing thing to him. He didn't have time for romance, though he savored what little slivers of it he came across.

If he were not so busy, he might have stayed a while, but he had a job to do, and she seemed to know it.

Speedy curled open the cloth covering the tent's doorway, and he stepped in to its warm confines, flicking what was left of his cigarette into the dust outside as he did so. "The hyena's still sleeping out there behind that building. Didn't see his bike with him. Poor dumb sonofabitch had so much to drink, he's probably dreaming he's drowning in beer."

Smiley nodded. He wasn't particularly concerned about Jagged the Hyena, but the foul-mouthed moron worked for GUN, and that was what made him want to keep an eye on the other man's activities. He didn't need any trouble with that group. So long as the kangaroos avoided him and managed to stay one step ahead of him as well, any problems created by Jagged's involvement would be negated.

"Here's to teetotallerin'." He sucked back a big gulp of coffee. "_Hoo._"

Speedy took off his hat and slapped it against a small table, spilling Sand Hill's obnoxious dust all over the place, plus all over Shifty's game, eliciting a silent glare that was directed his way. "Rain's comin'."

"Bad?"

"Didn't see any lightning." Speedy slipped the hat back on and rested his frame against the table to watch the doorway, folding his arms and crossing a leg. "Should just be a shower. Looks pretty heavy, though."

Smiley offered a grin. He embraced such weather. Sweating all over Sand Hill and its torturous heat had been getting old anyway, so it would be a pleasant and welcomed change of pace during the hunt. He hauled himself from the bed, then stepped over to where Shifty was sitting and threw his foot into the fellow kangaroo's legs. "Get up and turn that dang thing off. We're leavin' in a minute."

"_Ow!_" cried Shifty. "Geez, boss. Can I at least get to a save point—"

"Nope."

"Please?"

"Nope."

"C'mon."

"Nope."

"Plea—"

"_Hey!_" barked Speedy, scowling at the youngest member of the trio with all the contempt he could muster that morning. "He said, _getcher lazy ass up!_"

"Phooey." Shifty shut it off and put it away before folding his arms and mumbling to himself like some little kid who'd just been yelled at by his mother.

Smiley grinned at his irritable friend. He knew Speedy didn't particularly like his boss' cousin, but by obligation of Shifty being a family member, and since the guy was too stupid to have a real job, Smiley brought him along just for the sake of having an extra gun. It had helped on occasion, but only when Shifty had his brain on straight that day. "Play nice."

Speedy didn't answer and continued watching the doorway. Why was anybody's guess, but that was what he usually did in places like this. Smiley had never condemned the habit. Maybe it could save them sometime. "Enjoy your break?" asked the boss.

"Wasn't long enough," Speedy droned. "I hate this place. I want out of this dump soon."

"It ain't so bad. Just needs some cleanin' up is all. That's why we're here."

Speedy grumbled, a noise that took some of the smile out of Smiley's namesake expression, but nothing was said of it.

"Boss," muttered Shifty while he hooked his ratty old gunbelt around his thin little waist. "You think that fella knows we're followin' him?"

"He's got a name, numbnuts," Speedy mumbled.

"I know that! I'm not stupid. Sheesh. You think Nack the Sniper knows we're followin' him, boss?"

Speedy shook his head.

"Beats the hell outta me. He's been in the game a long time." Smiley jiggled his cup and watched the contents splatter about inside. "I don't think so, but I wouldn't doubt it, either. A yes or no answer doesn't apply here, I don't reckon. You never know what that sorta fellow's thinkin'. So long as we stay with him and don't get too far behind, though, I figure everything'll work out."

"I sure hope so. Having him know we're after him is the last thing I want to have happen. That guy scares the hell outta me."

"How's that?" Smiley went to place his drink on a table near his bed.

"'Cause, boss," Shifty lamented with a wave of his hands, "he's got guns!"

Both Smiley and Speedy turned as slowly as they possibly could to stare at their cohort like the man had a tarantula doing a salsa dance on his face.

"So do we, you _dumbass peckerhead!_" Speedy yelled.

"But he's got those kinda guns where you don't have to pull back the hammer to shoot 'em first! They're called, like, semiautomatics or something!"

"_YOU IDIOT! _WHAT DO YOU THINK THAT IS IN YOUR HOLSTER!?"

Shifty glanced at the black semiautomatic sitting inside his gunbelt. "A semimanual?"

The silence from the others rang louder than a bell.

"That is a semiautomatic," Speedy replied in the most monotone voice they'd ever heard, until, "you SKINNY LITTLE BRAINDEAD _JACKASS!!_"

"Well, how's I supposed to know that? You guys never tell me anything. Next you're gonna tell me we're after _Fang the Sniper._"

"Um," interrupted the ferret quietly to Speedy, who looked like he were about to spontaneously combust, "do you want some coffee?"

"_NO, _I don't want any goddamn coffee! I just want to get the hell out of here already before I die from a stupidity outbreak!"

"Do you have hot chocolate?" Shifty asked delightfully. Speedy garbled, his frustration almost boiling out of every pore on his body.

Smiley watched his gray-furred comrade-in-arms. "Boy, you are just too damned high-strung, I swear. I think you need another cigarette break or somethin'."

Speedy faced his boss, his features awash with irritation. "What I _need _is to get out there and shoot that mangy fleabait already. I'm getting sick to death of this plan of yours. I don't see why we don't just go out there right now, find him, and blast him to smithereens. If he's headed north, then obviously Claw the Mole is headed north too. The only town up there is New Mettle. That's where he's going!"

"Easy there, pilgrim," Smiley cooed. "Haven't we already gone over this before? That guy's doin' all the hard work for us. Right at the end, we swoop in and nail 'em both. Take him out now, and we'll have that much more work ahead of us, all 'cause you didn't feel like following my ingenious, brilliant, well-constructed plan of masterful craftsmanship."

The look on Speedy's face softened marginally. He looked away.

"Listen," Smiley went on, taking on a more relaxed tone. "You know I don't like the guy either. But we jump outta the plane with no parachute, and it'll make things hard. The plan will work, and we gotta stick to it. Just remember that when we're all done, we'll be bitches in riches. Understand?"

"No," the other kangaroo muttered sourly. "I don't."

"And why exactly is that?"

"Don't you get it? That dumbass hyena is after him too. You know he doesn't have a plan beyond catching up to Fang and getting him first. Not only that, but what if these inbred hicks in this piece-of-shit zone recognize him and try to make a name for themselves? I don't give a damn how fast that oily mongrel is said to be; someone out there is gonna get lucky. It might be Johnny Law, it might be Johnny Hobo, it might be your goddamn grandmother, but he's gonna buy the farm someday at somebody's hand. And then where'll we be when your little insurance plan is six feet under? Stickin' our heads in the sand, because we were stupid enough to follow your advice."

There was a strange silence in the room as Smiley put a gimlet stare into his unwavering cohort, a very flat expression adorning his face. Shifty glanced between his companions, unsure of what to do.

"So you think we can't pull this off, huh."

Speedy stood silent.

"You don't think I've thought this through. You think I've just got some two-bit scheme going here." Smiley's head dipped to one side. "You wanna know something? I don't need your approval. I'm the one who's kept us alive when the rough has gotten rougher. I'm the one who makes sure we don't get killed when we're hunting a tarantula that's got six shotguns in six hands. If you weren't where you are now, if you didn't have me to guide that crazy shootin' hand of yours, you'd-a-been shot dead a long, long time ago, probably by Johnny Law or Johnny Hobo. Yeah, you're fast, but everything you say about old Fang the Sniper can be said about you too. You ain't as young as you used to be either, buddy. So thank you very much for your eloquent opinions, but I'm pretty darn positive I know what I'm doing. If you still don't like it, you're more than welcome to go off and git yourself killed any time you please."

Speedy looked like he'd just been told to go to hell by the Lord. "Why, you conceited yellow skunk, I oughta _kill--!_"

"However," Smiley continued, "I'd appreciate it if you stuck with us and had some faith for a change, 'cause I gotta say, you'd be a helluva lotta help against old Fang the Sniper. This is the one we've been waitin' for, amigo. You know he's tougher than anything else we've taken on. It'll take all three of us. You see what I'm getting at now? Don't get upset all over the truth, now."

The gray-furred kangaroo's silence spoke harsher than words.

"C'mon." Smiley's grin returned. "For an old friend?"

"_Ugh!_" spat Speedy, swiveling on a heel. "Your head's so damn big, I'd pop it but I'd blow this whole town to shit off its shingles with the concussion."

"What're you guys talkin' about, anyway?" asked Shifty.

"And _your _head is too little altogether, dumbass."

Smiley adjusted his hat and nodded his head to the tent's opening. They'd spent enough time jabbering. "If y'all are done doubting your fearless leader, let's vamoose. That boy ain't gonna sit around waiting for us."

His two cohorts slowly ambled to the exit. Smiley offered his ferret waitress one of his more pleasant smiles, which she seemed to enjoy. He tipped the brim of his hat to her before stepping away and out into the dawn of early morning light.

* * *

The rain continued while Fang rode across the rolling terrain of Sand Hill. At times it lessened, and at times it hardened, but despite the fluctuating nature of the crude weather, it did not go away, and he could not force his mechanical steed across the sands too quickly as a result. His eyes carried no protection against the blasting of water that would pound against his face at high speeds, so he eased along, praying to multiple heavenly figures that the clouds would grant him pardon and depart. They didn't. Clearly he'd done something to piss the heavens off, or they just didn't like him.

He steered his way into a canyon. Rock spires stretched high on every side, brown desert plantlife flowering their features. A stream was forming along the canyon's natural route, and he didn't have to worry about getting caught in a flood since he could fly out of there whenever he pleased, so he took his time and enjoyed the developing scenery. It was a peaceful place he knew he could not see often.

His eyes searched every moment for signs of life among the rocks and mountainsides. There were none, as far as he could tell, but the rain would probably have washed away most of it by then anyway. He enjoyed the quiet solitude.

But every once in a while, his odd sixth returned, that funny feeling he got that told him he might have someone behind him, watching him, following him. He tried to ignore it, and at the same time, tried not to, knowing that doing so could get him killed. His own paranoia irritated him. It was difficult, but he rode on, regardless of the danger. He deduced the worries as the cliffs playing mind games with him, a theory that was not unheard of for travelers in these parts.

When the stream began to grow, he gained some altitude and circled around a wide, curvy pass that stretched east, then back north again. This was not the most pleasant terrain he had ever endured, and there were places a man could hide, which left him with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Fang didn't like presenting himself as an open target, but he had little choice. All he could do was rely on his instincts and reflexes. They'd kept him alive this long; they would yet do their jobs. He wasn't the cripple Speedy the Kangaroo had accused him of being.

The rain did a fine job of replenishing his supply of water, but his food problem was another story. He hadn't packed any four-star ensembles. He was a person who looked forward to a fine meal at the end of a day's tiresome labors, but he couldn't bring himself to fantasize about the pork and beans or canned noodles he'd brought. Fang hated that stuff. It was cheap, though, and it didn't add ten pounds to his ass, so it got the job done. That didn't mean he had to even remotely like it. He'd have lived off beef jerky if he could, but his supply of that was already dry.

He had an even larger problem than crappy food, however. As fine as machine as it was, the _Marvelous Queen _too required sustenance, and it would need it soon, if the dash's little needle near the "E" icon was any indication. Gasoline was a difficult commodity here in the boonies, too, and he hadn't let that worry him yet. He had a myriad of other problems to sweat over, like how he could get shot at out here, or more importantly, how he was broke. But when the thrum of the _Queen's _engines began to waver, he knew she hadn't long to live unless he could solve this issue.

When he pitched the craft out of the canyon's end, he spotted a small, quiet-looking ranch-style home some distance from its mouth. It was a single-story brick establishment, with a wooden fence surrounding its exterior and an older sort of automobile sitting inanimate before the wooden, roofed porch. The building was clearly old, but it looked well-kept for as well. Through that, he was able to deduce that the owner probably wouldn't try to fill his abdomen full of lead should he approach. But there was always a chance. He was careful.

He stopped the airbike, parked on a rise that looked down at the small valley the home occupied, and sat silently. The rain trickled off the brim of his hat.

Procuring his binoculars, he scanned the premises. There was no activity outside of which to speak. The windows were covered by blinds on the inside, and the chimney was not seeing use. He lowered the device and drummed his fingers against the airbike's handlebars before glancing at the little needle near the "E" that told him all sorts of horror stories about men trekking across the desert on foot after their rides went lame. Fang grimaced, but still sat inanimate. He sat there for a long while, staring down at the home.

Throughout his entire life, he had been toughened by singularity, by sparing himself the complacence and headaches that were aroused by relying on others. To him, the extent to which a man needed the shoulder of another to rise matched how much weaker he was for it, but a man who rose alone was that much stronger. He'd relied on no one but himself, hardening himself through the harshness of the lands and the awful men who inhabited them. Although it could prove unnerving at times, he was not afraid of being alone. The strongest man was he who stood alone.

But before his desire to work by himself, before his guts, before his cruelty, before his skill with a gun, before everything else that dominated Fang's lifestyle came his appreciation of logic. Despite the frequent big numbers bounty hunting presented, he was in no way a wealthy man. He hadn't been able to afford nor bring along spare gasoline, though he had not anticipated his trek into Sand Hill lasting this long anyway. He shut his eyes and fumed wordlessly, trying to talk himself out of what he was considering doing, but it had little effect. To do this went against every aspect of the way he conducted himself, but he had to do it. It was that simple, because if he did not, he could not continue, and he was far too invested in this pursuit by now to even consider giving up until he was dead, or his target was bagged and tagged before he could cash in.

He started the machine and rolled down the hill slowly, cautiously approaching the home and watching for any sudden movement. None came.

The airbike came to rest by the wide-open wooden gate. Fang lingered his way off the leather seat, the soles of his boots sinking in rainwater amidst what had become a light drizzle, and watched the home again. Still no movement.

He stood there. The possibility that this place was a hideout for people who didn't want to be found did not slip past him, and even then, perhaps the residents wouldn't take kindly to him, knowing who he was, and tried to attack him anyway. It felt like every moment of his life, he was in danger. He hated it, but had little choice in the matter. He had to do it.

He was there for nearly ten seconds before he started stepping towards the porch, his gunhand gripping iron the entire time, lest something happen. He would not draw it unless forced to, but in the entire trip from where he'd parked to the front door, nothing occurred. Fang stopped near the door, feeling his nerves tighten dramatically. Here he was, standing on some stranger's porch, dripping wet and without his gun free. He'd never felt like such a fool before. He could get his head blown off any second.

He heard a cry from somewhere within, a sound that lessened his breath. It was a child's laughter. He grimaced again, and quickly began to feel the ramifications of what he was doing sink into his gut. He might have preferred getting shot to what he was about to do. But after an agonizing few moments of debating to himself whether or not this was worth the humiliation, he finally knocked, and somehow found the resolve to keep from running out of there.

There was silence. Fang prayed vainly that no one would answer.

The big wooden door groaned noisily, and a small white billy goat peered out at him. It took about half a second for a smile to envelope the child's expression. "Hello."

Fang said nothing, feeling a wave of nausea flow through him.

"I'm Sonic the Hedgehog," the child told him pleasantly.

"NO HE'S NOT, I AM!" came a cutting dispute from another young voice somewhere inside.

Fang somehow managed to take his hand off his gun, but still couldn't bring himself to say anything.

"Who is it?" This voice was older, female. Another white goat appeared in the doorway, one who stood Fang's height, if not higher. She was dressed for simplicity, given the curiously cool temperature the rain had brought, with a plain white shirt and dark blue jeans. She wasn't one to flaunt expensive clothing, it seemed – at least not around the house. "If he's looking for your dad, tell him he's over in Station Squa—"

She stopped speaking as soon as she saw who was standing there. Fang expected her to scream or run away. She did neither.

Instead, she shooed the kid away with a "Go play," and then redirected her attention to the miserable individual occupying her doorstep. "Can I help you?"

She didn't sound nervous, but her caution was clear as day. It was obvious to Fang that she knew who he was, so at least he didn't have to go through the laborious process of introducing himself. Rather, he had to jump right to the worst part, but when he went to speak, it was suddenly the hardest thing he'd done in months, shooting people who shot back included. "I, uh..."

The goat stood there, watching him. Her caution seemed to ebb in favor of curiosity.

"Uh," he driveled again, realizing he had to get this over with sooner or later, "listen, uh—"

"Yes?"

_Don't rush me, _he thought, but it didn't quell the embarrassment that flooded through his nerves at the question. "Um, well."

She was not impressed with his sudden infection of autism, and he knew it.

"Uh." Fang gestured back to where his airbike was sitting, cringing inwardly the whole time. "I'm sort of, uh, running low on gas."

"So?" she asked without missing a beat. Her eyes were roaming over his pitiful state. He'd never felt so utterly pathetic. This was ridiculous; he had pride.

"Well," he huffed, wondering why the words weren't coming easier the more he spoke, even as the most difficult question he'd ever asked began to fly off the rails before it was even out of his mouth, "I was wondering if, you, uh..."

"Do you need some?" She opened the door further.

Fang's lips stopped stumbling over themselves as he struck her with a decided look of astonishment. "Yes."

"We keep a few cans in the shed at the side of the house. You can use one. Let me get my shoes."

And she walked away, leaving a thoroughly stunned Fang the Sniper to stand there, speechless.

When she returned, he was still there in that same exact spot. Despite the easing rain, she led him around the house's red-brick perimeter to a wooden shed built in to its side, and swung open its creaky, termite-infested door to reveal a host of red gasoline canisters sitting in the dirt. Fang looked past her and spied all manners of well-kept gardening tools inside while she hauled one from where it lay. He glanced back at the yard. Every inch of what little grass or plant life there might have been was brown and dead. He gazed at the side of the house, where a larger, garden-like collection of greenery looked to have once tried to thrive with effort, but had long since passed on in failure. The sight stirred a dismal feeling within him.

"Here," she said, hauling the canister from its nest with clear difficulty.

Fang held a hand out. "I'll carry it," he said.

"It's alright." She stepped away in the direction of where his airbike sat, and again, he was without words. "Can you close the door?"

He did so before following after her. She reached the _Queen _and began looking for the gas cap, ignoring the way he again held his hand out to the canister in futility.

"It's there—" he started, but she'd already found it. He was still as she filled the tank to its capacity, unable to look away. The rain drenched her, much as it had him, but she continued anyway until the task was completed.

When she was done, she moved the canister under her arm and flipped the aircraft's cap closed. "There you go."

Fang was quiet. He did not move from where he stood.

The goat faced him, any caution she'd displayed earlier a distant memory. She looked him square in the eye, as though waiting for something. When nothing came, she raised her eyebrows. "You're welcome."

His tongue jolted into movement before he could even consider what to say. "Thank you."

She offered a light smile. "Anything else you need?"

"No," he eventually mumbled after a short pause, trying his best to avert his sight away from hers.

"Are you sure?"

He returned her gaze, unaware of how to respond. It didn't take a genius in social sciences to know she'd noticed his awkward state of confusion. Fang wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed, annoyed, or remain tacit.

"You don't look like you're packing much. Besides a bunch of bullets, anyway."

No response.

She gestured to the building behind Fang. "I just made something to eat for the boys, so if you're hungry, I can give you some too."

It was obvious she wouldn't get an answer to that either, so she moved past him. "You can wait on the porch, if you want."

Into the house she disappeared. Fang remained stationary by the _Queen. _He placed a leather gloved palm on one of the handlebars, an anxious tension rendering his feet useless. He suddenly became very aware of his unnerved state, but found himself unwilling to move, all the while. Eventually he shook himself clean of his unsettled state enough to retrieve from the _Queen _his map of Sand Hill, unconcerned that it was getting soaked all the while. He had just exited Shipe Canyon – named for the fine Sand Hill explorer-cartographer who had been gutsy enough to map much of this atrocious zone – which helped him find his location easily. There seemed to be a settlement further north, with few others out this far into the wild, and that was in all likelihood where he would find the bounty he sought. Where else would Claw hide from his grasp like the little coward he was?

That son of a bitch. Fang felt his flustered state give way to anger, and he clenched the map so tightly he threatened to rip it up in his hands if he wasn't careful. He owed that mangy peckerwood. He'd find him and collect that bounty if he had to put the mongrel to bed with a shovel and a hole in the ground. That would be justice.

He heard the door creak again and turned his gaze across the dead, sandy yard to look. She had returned, having dried off while she was absent, and held a plate in one hand and watched him.

Fang stood there, dropping the map to his side and watching back, before looking off at the frontier that encompassed the home's scenic view. For some reason, he did not feel the grit and gusto to get back out there on the trail as he always did. Not yet. It had been replaced by a small tranquility, brought either by the promise of decent food or something else. It was a feeling he was not used to, and he wasn't certain yet if he liked it or not.

Despite that, he put the map back in its compartment and slowly plodded back to the porch, where she waited under its roof and out of the rain. She gave him the plate and moved her hand toward an old, antique-looking bench near the front door. "You can sit down, if you feel like it."

It took him a few seconds, but he obliged. The seat groaned under his weight, but it didn't feel like it would burst apart beneath him. It, like the home, seemed well-taken care of.

He stared at the food before him. It wasn't elegant or high-priced, but it looked and smelled fine to him, much better than the muck he'd been forced to bring along with him on this venture. But still, he couldn't bring himself to pick up the fork. Every part of his psyche screamed in protest at what he was doing. _This is wrong. I shouldn't take this. I don't need this. She could have put something in it. I--_

"Hey," she said, and he looked up at her. She was still standing there, watching him. "It's alright."

He considered that. The fork entered his hand, and he took a bite. It wasn't a flawless taste, but he saw nothing wrong with it. He took another.

She smiled, apparently satisfied, and leaned her frame against the bricks near the door, looking out at the drizzle curtaining before them from the porch roof.

"So who are you after?" she asked while he ate.

Fang didn't answer.

"Badman, huh."

No reply. Names of people he was pursuing weren't a subject Fang indulged in with other people.

She looked out at the horizon. It was nearing mid-day, by then. "How is it?"

"Good," he admitted between a bite. He had to admit, it was better than anything he could remember having recently. He normally didn't like home-style cooking, but he could make an exception with canned goods waiting for him back on the _Queen._

"Thanks." She was quiet, then. It seemed she didn't want to intrude too much on his business. Fang noticed, since people were _always _butting in and sticking their noses into his affairs. Too many questions bugged him. Too few could have the same effect.

He glanced at her. He wasn't a man who enjoyed talking when he didn't have to, and to share the company of someone who understood that for a change was nice.

The rain let up a little, giving him a better view of Sand Hill's notorious dunes and towering peaks in the distance. He wondered silently why she and her kin made their living in this place. Many folks could be intimidated by such broad freedom and the lonesome feeling of unpeopled land. Some tried to settle on their own, longing for a home where the stars were so low, it looked like one could reach up and swat them, but often they were driven out of it by their own quiet fear of such an environment. Others, however, could find peace in that, and he could see why. He did not particularly like every aspect of Sand Hill, but he saw qualities of it to which he could connect.

He glanced to her again. He contemplated something, and eventually went through with it. "Why do you live here?"

She seemed a little surprised by the question, but said nothing of it. "I wanted to live somewhere the kids could look back on and appreciate when they were grown up. This used to be a ranch. We restored it as best we could, but we're still working on parts of it. The fence, for instance."

"It's a good home."

She nodded. "I like the location."

He wasn't sure he agreed. "Seems a little out of the way."

"Yeah. It can be hard to get them to school every morning, but it's worth it. There are some dark sides to it, but this zone can be nicer than people give it credit for."

"It's not that nice," Fang mumbled before another taste.

She looked down at him and considered that. "Maybe not. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here. But the boys like it."

Fang didn't reply.

"Are you going to New Mettle?"

That must have been the marked settlement he'd noticed on his map. "I guess so. Anyone been by here recently?"

She shook her head. "No one out of the ordinary. We get weirdoes lingering around here looking for my husband sometimes, but I guess you get that in an environment like this. You make weird friends."

"Not many friends worth having here. You should be careful."

She thought about that.

"This place attracts all kinds," he told her. "More lawless than law-abiding, around here. It's good that you're living far from the heart of it. The women don't seem to get much respect in the towns. I doubt children get better treatment, even with the school up there. This isn't a place that suffers fools. It's hard and it'll kick you if you give it the chance."

"I know," she said passively, "but we like it here anyway. There's a peacefulness here."

He shrugged and scraped what was left of the meal onto his fork before finishing it off. "Your choice."

Her brow rose. "You don't care for it much, I take it?"

"I've been in nicer environments." He set the plate aside and leaned forward, looking at the ground before him. "I don't look forward to setting foot in that town. It's the biggest mark on my map, which means it's the biggest hotspot for people who don't want someone like me there."

"Maybe you'll find what you're looking for quickly, and you won't have to indulge them in any debates."

He couldn't resist a mocking snort. "I hope so." _God, I hope so._

She crossed her arms, looking across the yard. "I'd be wary of my surroundings in that place, if I were you. They've got some new city constable taking care of things who doesn't know what he's doing. Couldn't enforce the law to save his own life, so there's a lot more trouble roaming around there these days than there normally would be. I don't go there very often anymore, myself. Can't even let the kids hang out there after classes. It's just dangerous."

"Sounds fun." Fang rubbed his legs. Sitting on the _Queen _for so many hours at a time with no breaks took a toll on them, and they were already bad as it was. A dull pain emanated throughout his thighs every second.

She noticed. "Are you alright?"

He nodded, but knew he didn't look it. She was eyeing him carefully, and he felt bad for trying to convince her otherwise.

He was quiet for a while, thoughts occupying his concentration. Then, he said, "I saw your garden."

She didn't seem to know what to make of that. Her brown eyes centered on their black counterparts a few feet away.

"You should try again," he continued, watching the shower before them. "This weather'll help."

She fixed him with an interesting look, but said nothing. Fang picked at one of his gloves tiredly.

"Anyone at that town I should be aware of?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Well," she started, "Juarez probably won't be happy to see you."

He thought a moment. He'd heard the name before, but he'd heard a lot of names, and many often weren't worth remembering. He'd been in the game so long, he was starting to wonder if he'd lose his mind over all the names he tried to keep track of. "Don't know him."

"Javelina. One of the lawless you mentioned, and pretty proud of it. He hangs around there looking for people to test his aim against. I think there's a bounty on him, but I don't try to pay attention to stuff like that. There are so many badmen around, it's hard to know where they all come from."

"I'll keep an eye out."

"Could you?"

Fang focused on her. She was giving him that watchful, curious look again, but he sensed a bleak, unhappy feel to it.

"Yes," he eventually said after finding his voice.

She smiled, but the somberness remained. "Thanks." She paused. "It's nice to know there are people like you around."

The awkward, unnerving feeling returned to flow through his veins and around his stomach, newly rejuvenated and with more strain on him than before. He stared up at her; she merely glanced back.

"I know you get a lot of flak, but, you do good work. It may not seem like it, but there are people out there who value your presence."

Fang felt his mouth go dry.

"Thank you," he managed, turning his sight to the wooden porch beneath him. He was conscious of her attention, and could not bear to return it.

Her smile lingered, and she was quiet for a while then.

Eventually he rose and handed her the empty plate. "What do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it."

He offered the barest of nods, unable to express his true appreciation. "Uh—"

"Hm?"

"Thanks again." It seemed to come easier this time.

"You're welcome." She fixed him with a vigilant eye. "Same to you, for the company."

Fang stepped off the porch and back into the rain, and returned to the _Queen, _hauling himself into the leather seat and powering the craft up. It rose as he steered it north, and then, accompanied by a blast of its rocket thrusters, cut a path away from the building into the horizon before only the thunder of the airbike's engines played the presence of the bounty hunter. She stood there on the porch, and turned twice to look back as she went to return inside. The engines died off, and he was gone.

Claudia shut the door with a thud and ambled into the kitchen, listening to the boys play in their room. She had heard of few people like him in her time, and met even fewer. There had been such a miserable, lonely feeling to him, almost to the point where it had seemed overwhelming, yet he handled its pain masterfully, like a worker ant that knew every inch of its job and offered no complaints. She knew that he had not led a good life, but he managed, and to her, he did not seem the part of the awful man his reputation suggested. He was admirable. She found herself thinking of that, and of him.

"Who was that?" Bronson, her youngest, asked as he entered the kitchen.

"No one, hon'. You done playing?"

"No, Fonda's making me be Shadow. I don't want to be Shadow. I hate Shadow."

"Well, you guys will just have to figure that out for yourselves. Just don't fight ov—"

There was an abrupt knock at the door.

"Hang on, sweetheart." Claudia stepped away and returned to the door. What could he want? He hadn't left anything there, as far as she'd been able to surmise. Perhaps he wanted to address something directly, a thought that struck an odd anxiety through her. She clicked the locks on the door and swung it open. "Ye—"

Sombrero the Gila Monster glowered at her from behind a gleaming silver pistol. "Hello."


	12. Lawless

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Twelve – Lawless--**

Beautiful. It were beautiful.

He was in a bed, brand new silk pajamas coloring himself over gray-and-black fur. Two lovely young things, scantily-clad and crawling all over him, were in his company, and every hand held a bottle of something brown and wonderful. In addition they fed him with a never-ending supply of expensive cigars, though he couldn't remember ever smoking before. Oh well – great time to start. And this, he knew, was only the beginning of it all. Soon the real fun would begin. It was heaven. It was bliss. It was wet.

Wet?

Jagged sputtered and swore loudly as somebody dumped a massive bucket of water over his face, and his delightful dream faded into obscurity. "What in the holy goddamn name of shit--!!"

"Get your smelly ass up!" boomed the bartender of the fine establishment the hyena had been sleeping behind, disposing of the bucket and procuring another, much fuller one. "You're fixin' my wall this mornin', and you ain't leavin' 'til it's done good and fine! That stunt you pulled yesterday, plowin' through my business with your little floaty-bike, I oughta tan your whole family's hide for what you done!"

"WHAT!?" screeched Jagged, dripping wet. "I'LL RIP Y—"

_Splash _came a tsunami of dirty water onto his face, and Jag quickly looked like he were suffering a seizure. "_ARRRGHH!!_"

"Aw, shut up, you could use the bath. Now get up and get over here. I got all the tools and wood you're gonna be usin' for the next coupla days all set for you. Up and at 'em, sunshine."

The man began plodding away while Jagged furiously struggled to get to his feet to wring this bastard's neck, splattering about in what was quickly becoming muddy sand and dirt. His boots slipped in the ground and his drenched head banged into the wooden wall of the bar. "Damn it!"

He finally managed to stand up straight, took one step, and promptly dunked his foot into a third water bucket that had been sitting there quietly. "I **hate** this **whole place** so f—"

"HURRY IT UP!" came a yell from the front of the building. "And just so you know, I'm expectin' payment from you for using my bar as a pillow back there."

Screw this. There was no way he was sticking around here all year. In spite of his pleasant dreams and dirty, pissed-off state, he had not forgotten the job he needed to do, and there was no telling where Fang the Sniper might have been by this time – besides north, which was all the information Jag had gotten out of this dump. If he could get moving quickly, perhaps he could have him before the day's end. Jagged stalked around the side of the building, slapping his fur and shaking the bucket off his motorcycle boot, swearing as hard as he could the whole time. "Stupid piece of shit zone. I can't believe I took this job. I could be home watching TV or something. I'm gonna miss the goddamn Puppy Bowl again. This must be what it's like to be in hell. I sw—"

Jagged stopped walking when he reached the front of the place, where he had left his new airbike, the same airbike that had been a part of his dreams earlier in the night. His new pride and joy. His new plaything. It was gone.

"What the _fuck,_" he blathered, flabbergasted.

He looked up and down the adjacent street. No sign of it. He scanned the top of buildings around him. Not there. "What the _fuck...!_"

He knew he'd left it here. He could still see its various imprints in the sand. But it wasn't here. "Are you _shitting me!?_"

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the bartender fooling with the gigantic hole in the front of his business. "Hey—HEY!"

"Hmmgh?" rumbled the big man, turning around.

"Where's my airbike!?" the hyena shrieked, pointing at the location of the anomaly.

"What airbike?"

"The airbike I blew through your stupid fucking bar with! Remember _now, _idiot!?"

The bartender stared at the sight on the ground for a second, one lazy eye oozing around and not focusing on anything. "Is that where you left it?"

"_OF COURSE_ THAT'S WHERE I LEFT IT!" Jag roared, sending a thunder through every nearby building. "WHERE THE HELL IS IT!?"

No reply for a few seconds. "That's funny."

"IT'S _WHAT!?_"

"Are you sure that's where you left it?"

Jagged's very fur began to bristle as his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists and the whites of his eyes became so red it must have looked like they were bleeding.

"Reckon it musta grew legs and walked away. Now get to work." And the man went back inside his bar.

It took every ounce of self-control he'd ever attained through his whole life put together, but Jagged somehow refrained from running in there after him and flaying him alive. Instead, he flailed his arms about, cursing his luck at the sky for all he was worth, wondering inwardly when this nightmare would end. It was one thing after another, out here. Leave it to himself to forget to take the stupid keys out of the damned thing's ignition or something. "Stupid fucking goddamn miserable dick-grabbing—"

In his irate state, he had not noticed a suspicious-looking rabbit lingering near him – at least not until the wiry fellow spoke up. "Excuse me, kind sir."

Jagged whirled around, coming all too close to punching this guy in the face before he could stop himself. "What!?"

"I was standing over here, and I couldn't help but take notice of your terribly unfortunate predicament."

"So _what!?_"

"Well," sleazed the strange-looking fellow, sparkling bucktooth jolting with every word, "I believe I can perhaps help you out of this mess. Sound good to you?"

"What the fuck ever. I don't want any bibles or newsletters or whatever the hell you're pawning—"

"On the contrary, my friend, I happen to be selling a machine I believe you'd well enjoy. I'm a fellow who looks out for the little people who go through the misfortunes this terrible society might give them. See, I run that little lot over there, where I sell various collectible vehicles of excellent value for your dollar."

The hyena spared a short glance down at the place, then looked back at this stranger.

"Well, if you're interested, mayhaps we could work out a deal that sees you on your way? I sincerely doubt you'd prefer to stay here and help old Chip with those many, many repairs, now, would you?"

Jagged stared down at him silently.

"Yes, well, _ahem._ If you'll follow me, please."

Jagged watched the little man start off. The rabbit gestured to him, and the hyena reluctantly followed, entirely uncertain of where this was headed.

When they reached the sight the rabbit had referred to, a small lot with a half-dozen beat-up junkers sitting around collecting dust, the salesman pointed at what looked to be an airbike. It wasn't as big as Dry Horn's, with a smaller engine and seat, but it looked like it could do the job. "Yes, I _just _got this in a few days ago. Unfortunately, no one around here is very interested in such a fine vessel, despite its low price. Philistines, all of them. None of them have anything resembling a fine taste, which I'm sure you have, as that wonderful machine you owned was a remarkable specimen of—"

"How much do you want for this chunk of shit?" interjected Jagged impatiently. He had work to do, and he had to get moving fast.

The rabbit quieted abruptly, watching the hyena with his brow furrowed. He looked back at the airbike. "Well, it had an original price of four thousand—"

"WHAT!?"

"_Ahem!_" coughed the salesman. "Let me finish, friend. That was when they brought it here, but I'm beginning to believe that it won't sell at such a price."

"_No shit _it won't sell at such a price. That's highway fuckin' robbery."

The rabbit's brow furrowed again. "Which is why I'm willing to drop the price to two thousand."

Jagged outright glared at him, the grotesque scars near his eyes scrunching. "That's almost as much as my freaking house cost."

"You must live in a very pleasant abode."

There was a long silence from the hyena. Jagged stepped away and curled himself onto the machine's seat, seeing if he could get comfortable. The leather felt old, and his ass had become well-acquainted with both old and new leather by this point, since he'd practically lived on motorcycles since he'd been a kid. The handlebars were too close to his body, and the whole craft felt like it was for someone half his size. Plus, there was a catastrophic problem in weight distribution – he could feel the back of the bike sink lower into the sand beneath them, as the seat was too far back to provide an even weight when the rider was on.

"So?" queried the rabbit, putting his black nose far too close to Jagged's face for comfort. "You like, friend? Hmm?"

"No."

"Oh, well, I'm sure you'll grow accustomed to it. It's a very popular model in Starlight City."

Jagged rolled his eyes and tried to get comfortable again. No dice. This thing almost felt like it were supposed to have more parts on it. The seat felt like it wasn't even supposed to be on this machine – like it had been recently replaced. Strange. The handlebars looked like they belonged on a completely different airbike as well. "I guess I don't have much choice."

"Glad to hear it. So, how will you be paying?"

Jagged blinked. He hadn't thought of that. _Oh shit. _"Uh—"

The rabbit's expression began to turn dour. "You _can _pay, correct?"

"Of course I can pay, you jackass jackrabbit. Err, uh—"

The rabbit watched him silently, suddenly looking very unimpressed.

Jagged watched back, then hurried to get out his cell phone. He dialed a number and placed it against his ear. "Hey, Tim, it's Jag."

Silence.

"No, it's Jag. ... _Jag._ ... _JAGGED, _damn it! Can—_**JAGGED, DAMN IT!! **_No, I-- ... Yes, I know I owe you twenty dollars. ... Goddamnit, shut up! ... _Shut up! ... _What? ..._ I didn't sleep with your fucking wife!! _I— _argh,_ shut up and listen! Just—_shut up!_ Shut up and listen for a sec, okay? God. Listen as hard as you can. I need an advance on my next couple of paychecks."

There was a _large _amount of yelling from the phone's tiny receiver. The rabbit stood there, staring at the hyena.

"Yeah, I know. ... I _know._ ... Damn it, I _know!! _Okay! _Okay! _Just do it. Go tell the boss. ... Of course you can do it! Just have them put the money into my account. It's easy. They do it all the time in the movies and fanfiction. Huh? ... Whaddya mean you can't do that!? You stupid little-- ... All you have to do is go ask the boss! It's easy, you just gotta grow a pair. Sh-- What? ... I gotta use it to buy an airbike."

More yelling.

"I am **not **the stupidest goddamn man who ever lived. Go tell that to your mom-- ... I know what the hell I'm doing! ... See-- ... _SHUT UP! _... I just need the money for this and that's it! ... Oh, come on! ... Just—N-- ... Liste-- ... Get your goddamn stupid monkey-brained autistic ass in there and do it already! I'm pretty certain I outrank you or whatever. ... YES I DO! ... Yeah, well, fuck you too. Hey, while you're talking to the boss, ask him if I can have a raise. ... Hello? _Hello!? _If you hung up on me, I'm gonna set your asshole on fire the next time I s—" And a loud dial tone began buzzing in his ear.

Jagged flipped the phone shut, irritated and disappointed all at once. "Jerk."

He sat there, looking morbidly confused. What to do... What to do? The rabbit was standing there and looking at him wordlessly, and Jagged felt his face flush from frustration, anger, frustration, confusion, and frustration. _Damnit, damnit, damnit. Gotta do something, gotta do something, gotta DO SOMETHING--_

Suddenly he remembered the GUN credit card. He tried to remember how much of it he'd blown on booze, but they always had large limits, and there certainly should have been enough left on there for an expense like this. And they probably wouldn't be upset if he used it now anyway for this. Nothing bad ever came from flagrant usage of credit cards anyway, and it wasn't like Jagged would have been too down in the dumps if something _did _go wrong as a result of his mishandling of their money. Or at least that's what he believed.

"Can you take this?" asked the hyena, holding up the fancy little gold-colored card.

The rabbit stared for a moment, then snatched it. "Absolutely, friend. I'll be back in a little bit. I'll have to find a place to, ah, use it, so you sit tight and I'll clear this through the nearest machine and grab the necessary paperwork."

And the salesman hurried away. Jagged sat there. He crossed his arms, quickly feeling his eyelids grow heavy.

An hour later, he awoke with a start. The rabbit hadn't returned. Jagged snorted and spat, rubbing his eyes and wondering what the hell the hold-up was.

It wasn't until then that he thought to himself – Hadn't he already tried to use that card around here before...?

He looked around. Townspeople were walking past and giving him strange looks. But he didn't see the rabbit among them, and he felt something in him start to grow hot with aggravation.

"Hey!" Jagged barked at one of them. "Where'd the sleazy little doofus who runs this lot go?"

"Chip owns that lot," the man replied hesitantly.

Jagged thought to himself. Wasn't Chip that bartender? "But, what about that... rabbit... dude—"

"Him? He got outta town about an hour ago." The man hurried on his way.

Jagged paused silently. _But he still has my—_

He took out his cell phone and glanced at it.

_312 Missed Calls_

_Missed Call 1 – GUN Finance Department, 4:04 PM_

_Missed Call 2 – GUN Finance Department, 4:04 PM_

_Missed Call 3 – GUN Finance Department, 4:04 PM_

_Missed Call 4 – GUN Finance Department, 4:05 PM_

_Missed Call 5 – GUN Finance Department, 4:05 PM..._

"Ah, crap."

* * *

The rain had let up by the time Fang saw New Mettle draw up on the horizon. He stopped the _Queen _at a rise and leered down at the settlement from a rise, watching it carefully. There was a good deal of movement to speak of, which meant that he might be able to blend in better, but he knew his face was well-known by people who had reason to not like it. He could hope all he wanted that no one would recognize him, but he would expect it as well. To do otherwise would be foolish, and he'd been in this game too long to have excuses for his personal screw-ups, so he'd solve that problem by not allowing a potential screw-up to come close to happening.

He was near. He could feel it by now. Claw was running out of places to hide, and Fang had him cornered. Down in that town, he would take the bounty for all he was worth.

The _Queen's _engines grumbled, and Fang began to make his way to the nearest street.

Hondo the Scorpion sat outside the _Black Jack,_ New Mettle's favorite watering hole, as far as getting hammered went. He rocked back and forth in the seat, his eyes roaming up and down across every woman who passed by, to their obvious displeasure. He chewed on a toothpick and looked thoroughly bored, index finger tapping away at the grip of the little 8mm semiautomatic holstered on his belt and wishing he could put it to use. The new policeman – or Town Marshal, whatever the hell he said he was – could make a nice target, but Hondo and his buddies hadn't found a good opportunity to practice his aim on that boy without anybody else knowing. Rather than lamenting his inability to shoot something or make some money the easy way, he occupied his time with a front row view of all the young ladies – many of whom were a good number of years underage – forced to walk around the wooden boardwalks with drooling sleazebags like him present. It wasn't too bad a day, all in all.

He was just watching Tara the Fox's ass move away from him when he saw an airbike down the sandy boulevard. There were plenty of airbikes around New Mettle, but this one was unfamiliar. Hondo knew damn well who belonged in town and who didn't, so he found his attention more drawn to it than the varying volumes of voluptuous vixenry. The airbike's rider steered the craft into a distant parking lot.

Hondo slowly retrieved the toothpick from his fangs and flicked it away, eyes locked tight on where the machine had disappeared. Seconds later, he saw a man in a brown outback-style hat emerge from behind a building, and he felt his mouth go dry, then suddenly water in anticipation. Someone new and unfriendly had come to town. Off the seat he curled. Down the opposite side of the street, he made a hand gesture to someone, before stepping in to the _Black Jack _as inconspicuously as he could.

The town felt strange to Fang. It was a stark contrast to Sand Hill's other places of civilization. New Mettle wasn't an old settlement. It seemed new and colorful, with fresh-built wooden storefronts lining the sides of the main street, and he could hear music and laughter from nearby bars and casinos, but while it had just been born, it wasn't being well-taken care of, and there were more unscrupulous-looking people around than there were decent-seeming folks. It almost made him miss the slummy part of Station Square he made his own home in, especially when he began to feel eyes on him. He stepped quickly down the boardwalk, but not too quickly as to bring too much attention to himself. He didn't want to look like he was in a rush, and he had to keep a sharp eye out for any sign of that miserable mole anyway. There were too many places that little coward could hide around here.

He stopped near the _Black Jack _bar, sparing a small glance in through a nearby window out of habit, then opened the old wooden door and stepped in. _Another damn bar, _he thought irritably. He didn't like visiting so many bars in so short a time, but the people he hunted for a living seemed to love them (and many seemed to practically live in them), so they made good check-in spots, of a sort.

It wasn't very loud in there, something Fang normally would have preferred, but lots of noise helped a man blend in. Some people talked quietly at new-looking circle tables amongst themselves, but Fang saw some patrons look his way, their stares lingering a little too long to leave him feeling entirely comfortable, then their lines of sight drifted back to what they were doing. Fang ignored them and stepped up to the bar, taking a seat and gesturing to the bartender, a young, short, mouse-like fellow. "Hey."

"Yessir?"

Fang's mouth felt like sandpaper after all the riding he'd been doing. His body as a whole felt stiff and wooden, but he could not rest too long. Not here. "Just water."

He heard chuckling behind him, and quelled his immediate frustration. His face turned a noticeably red color, and it wasn't entirely from humiliation.

"Two bucks, sir."

Fang looked in his wallet, and while he was grabbing for a pair of bills, he suddenly realized how little money there was in there. He was almost broke by now – he had to finish this job soon somehow.

The bartender left to fetch the drink, leaving the weasel-wolf to himself. Fang watched him go, then looked at the various glasses and bottles stacked together neatly behind the bar. Leave it to this shithole to keep itself looking nice while the rest of the town flounders.

He took a swig of water when the man returned, then let his thoughts drift to the woman.

The woman who had helped him when he'd so pathetically asked for it. Fang thought he should have felt humiliated, but oddly, he didn't. Never before had he been bestowed such an act of humanity by another person. He was used to people being afraid of him, or thinking he wasn't as tough-looking as his reputation bragged – before the bounty hunter would get down to business and put those types on the floor, anyway. To see someone help him filled him with an anxiety, a feeling of newness much like New Mettle seemed to have.

He wondered where her husband was. A woman should not be alone in these wild lands and so far from helping hands. A small part of him considered for a moment the prospect of going back there to check on her once he had Claw, provided that jackass was here – but then he thought, why? She had taken care of herself this long. He quickly felt foolish for even thinking about doing such a thing. He wondered if he were losing his nerve.

Was it an attraction? Perhaps. Even in the few moments he'd known her, he could tell she was a person whose beauty was deeper than physical appearance. She had dreams, she wanted a good home for her kids. They were qualities good people had – good people he wasn't used to dealing with. He had gotten along with her well, something that had almost never happened before between he and another woman. His anxiety and unfamiliarity with them had been blatant, but she hadn't seemed to mind. But she was married, or so she had said, and he chastised himself for thinking of her.

But still he thought of her for some reason.

Fang absent-mindedly glanced to his side, towards the room's various tables, jiggling his drink silently until he focused on the nearest one and the rough-looking man sitting at it.

Hondo the Scorpion's dark red, wide-brimmed hat rose until his crude visage became visible, and their gazes met. Malice colored Hondo's eyes.

Fang felt his fur bristle, and he looked back down at the glass in front of him.

He began to remember what exactly he was doing here. An unnerving feeling flowed through him as he realized the danger he was in, and he knew he had to get this over with quickly before something happened. After a short glance to make sure the gun in his holster was still there, lest he be caught up the creek without a paddle, he waggled his fingers at the bartender in a 'come hither' motion.

"Yessir?"

Fang kept his voice very low, suddenly well-aware of the eyes on him again. "Has a mole been through here recently?"

The bartender rested his hands on the bartop and thought.

"Yessir. Fella's been comin' in here from time to time. Seems like a sad little sort."

"Is that a fact?" Fang's brow furrowed. A sad little sort? Whatever.

"Yessir. I do believe he's stayed over at the Palm Hotel. That's down Fuller Street, here. Just past the, uh, marshal's office—"

"The what?" Fang asked.

"Nevermind. Anyway, I think he's still there. He makes his livin' around here somewhere's, but I hear he heads into Station Square for a time. Not sure why. Doesn't look like a man who does bad deeds, but I guess they come's in all sizes."

Fang felt a high run through him. Just like that, he was closer than ever, and that familiar feeling he got whenever a bounty was near his grasp struck him ten-fold. It was time to bring this hunt to its finish. He eased himself from the seat. "Thanks—"

--And turned to the door to see a black-clad javelina standing silently.

_Hell, _he cursed inwardly.

The brown-furred, boar-like man was looking right at him, and had his hand close to a large, black pistol holstered below his right hip. Juarez the Javelina's smoldering expression made the whole bar shut up like a lit match that had just had a cup of water dumped over it. Fang could only stare back, grinding his teeth and feeling his muscles tense up. Normally he was cool and collected in the face of adversity, for this time, for some odd reason, he felt a gnarled feeling of aggression come to life within him.

"The great Fang the Sniper," Juarez said through a derisive snarl. His dark eyes were alive with contempt. "We are blessed with fortune, today. You are no' smart to bring yourself here, _muchacho. _This place, it is a hornet's nest, no? Killed, many people are. Sticking their noses where they did not belong, they were."

Fang said nothing. He heard a chair scoot back, and Hondo the Scorpion slowly rose to his full height, sweaty palm near his gun.

"Bad news, bounty hunter," laughed the scorpion poisonously. "Your shit just hit the fan."

At a different table, another gunfighter rose, and then another. Fang studied them each well, and all of them looked mean and more than ready for trouble. A lot of bullets could fly from those hands, more than he could handle in this small space. He remained silent, despite Juarez's stoic hatred and Hondo's cackling.

He remembered what the woman had told him – to watch out for Juarez. More importantly, he had not forgotten her sad request.

Fang's nerves hardened. There might have been a bounty on Juarez and these goons, but he didn't find it in himself to care. She and her family needed—No, from what he'd observed, they deserved a safe home, and having a group of cutthroat thugs like these around didn't help. He presumed the javelina to be the de facto leader among these gunslinging wretches, and if he could take him out...

"Fang the Sniper is quiet," Juarez continued. "I do not think he is so great. Always he shoots from nowhere. Can he shoot from somewhere at men with guns?"

The gunfighters spread themselves out, all eyes on Fang the Sniper. The tension in the room froze as those not involved made distance from the scene.

There was a long period of silence from the bounty hunter.

Hondo's fingers came as close to his pistol's grip as he was allowed without breaking hell loose from its cage. He'd dreamt of this kind of moment for as long as he had lived. Fang the Sniper, killed by his hand... He would be a legend. So long as he could beat Juarez to the shot, anyway – but he was more than convinced of his superiority.

The bartender began to take cover beneath his beloved bartop, but no one was aware of the existence of the shotgun he kept down there. Despite his meek persona and appearance, he'd used it before and lived to tell the tale. Those on the receiving end hadn't been so lucky.

Everything was silent – even outside, all was quiet. Juarez waited, a strong look of invincibility forming his expression.

Then, Fang relaxed, and, to everyone else's shocked surprise, smiled ever so slightly, before he said, "Let me buy you a drink."

Juarez was stunned, but moreso, he was curious. His brow raised slightly and he curved his head to one side, but the gusto remained.

"... before one of us dies," the bounty hunter finished, and he rested an arm on the bartop.

He was met with similar silence from the javelina, who did not fail to notice Fang didn't lift his right hand from his side, where his gun holster was. This was very unorthodox, but still, he was curious, and it too was interesting. He had not expected it, yet he did not consider it a negative twist.

Slowly he ambled forward, leading Fang to retrieve the last little bit of money he had left before slapping it on the bartop. Hondo stood there, flabbergasted at what was unfolding before him.

"Get this big fella something good," Fang said.

The bartender paused, glancing down at the hidden shotgun, then got a small glass of something brown and smelly before placing it before Juarez, who had by then stopped near Fang. The javelina looked down at the drink, then at the bounty hunter. "You are a very interesting adversary, Fang the Sniper. Shoot you now I could, but I like it when things are interesting. Boring, things get. Easy, the shooting gets."

"Sure." Fang watched the gunfighter take a good, hard swig. "I can relate."

"_Si, _I am sure you can. You do much shooting. A shame it goes to such a waste."

Fang didn't answer that.

"Playing hero for the peacemakers, it is not a job that brings much fortune, I do not think. That leads me to wonder, Fang the Sniper, why are you here? You come to test yourself against men like me, or something else?"

"Maybe you should just drink," Fang said.

Hondo threw his arms in the air. "Buh—wha—Juazy! Whaddya doin'? Kill 'im already!"

Juarez ignored him. "I like the way you deal your cards, Sniper." _Glug. _"A shame it is you are so small and fragile. I had hoped to meet you someday. Hoped I did for a good test against the mighty bounty hunter, but you are too tiny to be this Fang the Sniper of legend. Afraid of you we are supposed to be. Afraid of you I am not. You will die too easily. _G__randé _shame, it is."

Fang smiled a tiny smile again, then gestured to one of the larger bottles situated behind the bar. "What's that?"

"Red Eye," said the bartender. "Stuff's a mite powerful."

Fang looked back at Juarez, who was leering at him. "Go ahead and have some of that. It's on me."

Juarez was all for it. "Bring it."

The bartender popped the cork and set the bottle in front of the javelina, not bothering to bring up payment in light of the tension amidst them. Juarez snatched it and took a fast pair of gulps. He grinned widely at Fang and licked his teeth, savoring the alcohol. "You are courteous for a fighting man, Fang the Sniper."

"Perhaps," Fang mumbled. "We're both civilized individuals."

"Shall I have a drink brought to you as well? I no' like to be selfish."

Fang shook his head while Juarez gulped down some more of the stuff.

"As you wish. I suppose it would only go to waste. Enjoyed by dead men, alcohol should not be. Appreciate its effects, they cannot."

There was another huge gulp from the bottle, then another, and another. Fang watched silently before the javelina smacked the bottle back down onto the bartop. It was almost already empty by then – the big man could take a lot of liquor in that big mouth of his. "Good. Very good. A fine drink is like a fine woman. Never stops loving you. And tastes good too."

Fang couldn't suppress a smirk. "Yeah." Then he thought of something. "How are the women in this town?"

"Oh," and Jaurez's grin grew to extreme proportions, "they are _excelenté, _Fang the Sniper. Perfect they are, as they do not talk back to us. My friends and I – Run this town, we do. Scared the women are, but it is good that way, _no?_ They are like well-trained pets. Obedient and willing to serve, if you see what I am meaning."

Juarez chuckled, and so too did some other customers, all of whom were listening in to the discussion. The only ones who didn't get a kick out of that statement were the bartender and Hondo, whose frustration was reaching a boiling point.

Fang's facial features had stiffened significantly by then. He glanced around the bar for a second, and for a moment, he realized he was having difficulty suppressing a sudden rage that was flooding through him.

"What about the children who live around here?" he eventually asked when he'd gotten control of himself.

"Ha," laughed the javelina. "They make good target practice!"

And the room laughed some more.

"_Hey!_" Hondo yelled. "_What _in the _hell _are you two _waiting for!?_ A blue moon!?"

Juarez held the bottle up and drained the rest of its contents down his throat, relishing every instant of it. He slapped the bottle down on the bar with a satisfied sigh when it had served its purpose.

"All done?" Fang asked amiably.

Juarez licked his lips. "More or less. I like to drink before I kill. Nice of you it is to give me this pleasure."

"You must drink a lot of that stuff to be able to take it in like that."

"_Si,_" grinned the javelina, stretching to his towering height. "Easy it gets. Just like the killing."

"Can you hold it down pretty well?"

"_Si, _well enough to—_"_

Fang launched the toe of his steel-plated boot straight up into Juarez's stomach with a deep, painful-sounding _whump_, so hard he literally jolted the gunfighter off the floor. Juarez's eyes bulged like they were on springs, the alcohol filling his stomach jostling like a tsunami was happening in there, and he quickly fell to his knees in a total heap_,_ making pitiful choking noises and looking like he'd just eaten a fly. Hondo and everyone else in the room went slack-jawed.

"How about now, asshole?" Fang asked, bending down to Juarez's ear and glowering at him. He put a palm against the javelina's head and shoved, sending the gunman's huge frame onto the floor with a resounding thud. "I don't like being threatened."

Juarez just gagged, and started to turn green.

"Is that all you've got? Big nasty outlaw bad boy can barely even hold his damn drink down. You disgust me." Fang kicked the black pistol out of Juarez's holster and sent it skittering across the floor, away from anyone else. "A two-bit sad sack of puss like you couldn't harm a flea. It'd outsmart you before you could tell if it was day or night."

Juarez spat a frothy, sweaty spit hatefully, eyes burning at Fang with a rancor few in the room could match. He clutched his stomach and lay there, grotesque noises coming from both his throat and gut.

Fang turned his attention to the other occupants of the bar and just stared.

"You—" spat one of the customers. "Y'can't do that!"

"Well, I suppose I just did," said Fang, leaning an elbow on the bar beside him. "Isn't that a daisy?"

"We'll kill you!"

"You aim to try your luck, go ahead."

No one tried.

Fang sneered. "Listen here, you bunch of insects. I don't care about _any _of you. None of you are worth the breath it takes to say your damn name. I'd sooner hunt a cracked-out ten-year-old than I would any of you lowlifes. But let me tell you this—" and his finger rose as he pointed at them, "—if I hear one word about any one of you arousing trouble in this place from now on, whether you're giving trouble to women or children or your damn pets, I don't care if you're on a picnic with your grandmother. I'll find you and spray your blood across this town like I'm painting graffiti on its walls. You hear me?"

"No one tells me what to do!" roared Hondo. "'Specially not some—"

"You shut your big mouth," Fang replied, with all the quiet authority of a general. "I'm tired of hearing it flap. You people are going to start treating your fellow townsfolk with respect, if I have to hold a gun over each and every one of you like I'm babysitting a bunch of kindergarteners in a prison camp."

"You'll have to do worse than that, you _walking corpse!!_" Hondo's hand slapped to his pistol. The other bar patrons dove for cover like a runaway train was sailing off the tracks at them.

One elbow still on the bar, Fang's other hand flashed to his belt like a bolt of lightning. Hondo's gun never even cleared leather. Fang pulled the trigger once, exploding a shot that boomed across the entire town and seemed to render everything else in Sand Hill still for a moment.

Hondo's body jacked back as a red mist sprayed behind him, a burning-red circle on his right breast. The scorpion stumbled backwards quickly before crashing into a pair of wooden chairs, breaking one during his trip to the floor. He gasped, turned over, and was dead.

Fang frowned and grimaced at once. _If you insist, idiot._ He shifted his aim at the other customers, conscious of the possibility that some of them could still be ready for a fight of their own. "Anybody does anything stupid, he dies. Just because I don't want to kill any stupid moron who takes a shot at me doesn't mean I _won't._"

No one moved. From his place on the floor, Juarez watched Hondo's still body bathe in an increasingly large circle of red, silently wondering if perhaps he himself had gotten off easy.

Fang took a few steps away from Jaurez and moved past Hondo, well aware that everyone within the surrounding mile had heard this racket with ease. That could make things difficult. He reached the door after what felt like hours to everyone in the room, and he stepped out, disappearing quickly into the day.

There was a long silence in the _Black Jack. _Life slowly began to return to it as the bartender wiped sweat from his brow. Some of the customers shuffled over to where Hondo lay spread-eagled.

"God a'mighty..."

* * *

Zipp the Coyote was sitting at his desk in the New Mettle marshal's office – or police station, whatever it was – bobbing back and forth in his creaky old chair and spinning one of his six-shooters on his finger while he talked to Festus, his little pet cactus which he'd somehow adorned with a little cowboy hat and bandana. "Boy, I tell y'all what, pilgrim, I ain't never been so bored in my life. Reckon we oughta think about movin' the herd on soon, eh?"

Festus didn't reply.

"This town ain't big enough for a man like me. Can't contain the wild, bubbling testosterone that a fella like me eats for breakfast every gall-damn morning. You'd think this town would have a little more action or somethin', but nope. Just people actin' up is all. And then they come to me and say, _why in thunderation didn't you getcher butt down there and stop that bank robbery? _Whadda they think I am? A bank robbery... stopper... guy... police officer?"

Festus said nothing, but rather stood there in his little pot.

"People these days, I tell ya. I thought I made it darn-for-certain clear that I'm here to bust me some outlaws. Like that Fang the Sniper fella. Nobody like that around here, though. Yep, I do believe that if we don't hear any fun goin' on soon, I'll just have to ride back out into the harsh, wild wilderness of _the west _and commence to look damn good doin' it—"

A gunshot rumbled across the skies, coming from down the street, near what sounded to him like the _Black Jack. _Zipp didn't flinch, blink, or even seem to notice the shot for a moment.

He looked over at the cactus. "You hear somethin'?"

No reply.

"Sounded like a bomb or some balloons poppin' or somethin'. Wonder if somebody's havin' a party."

Still no reply.

"Well, I sure as hell ain't gonna sit here and let them have all the entertainment to themselves." Zipp hopped out of the seat. "Might as well have some fun while the gettin's good, eh?"

The coyote-marshal-officer checked his guns to be certain they were loaded, and spun both of them back into their leather holsters with fancy twirls. He straightened the red cowboy hat on his head before exiting the office and spur-jingling his way down the boardwalk towards the _Black Jack, _and unfortunately for those inside, it _was _in his jurisdiction.

Despite all his attention to outlawish details, however, Zipp did not think much of the suspicious-looking lizard wearing a white sombrero, a bandana over his face, and twin pistols on his belt when he walked past.


	13. The Hunted

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

* * *

**--Chapter Thirteen – The Hunted--**

Once again, Fang the Sniper had killed a man, but that was life. It didn't bother him that much. Out here in this drab, rough world often colored by blood, it was hard not to get mixed up in such dangerous situations that called for the boom of a gun. Death lay like the devil's curse on this land.

Not that he liked the idea of killing without gain. There was little point to him in taking a life were there no profit in it. He was irritated by the notion of people like the Kangaroos blasting their way to the end of their troubles, with no thought given to the consequences. Men like that were bound to die violent deaths—the exact sort of deaths they dished out themselves. But he could see why they had chosen that path rather than his.

The people on the receiving end of his fire weren't exactly shining pillars of civility, either. Fang couldn't recall a time he'd taken a life and regretted it, but though he had never before given it much thought, knowing the people he'd killed were miserable things the world wouldn't miss (if it wasn't better off without them), the fact that he'd committed such sins always left a strange, empty feeling inside his chest somewhere. He'd almost never considered it to be a troublesome feeling—maybe it'd been a little disturbing after the first victim, but it was more or less an inconvenient, aggravating sort of cognizance that dwelled inside somewhere but didn't make itself all that apparent. It had been that way ever since the terrible things he frequently did in the name of bounty hunting had started growing routine.

But the older he got, and the more lives were stopped forever by his hand, the more he began to think about it. Sometimes he would sit in his chair amidst the darkness of his home and begin to dwell upon what he'd done. He wasn't distressed by the thoughts. Instead, they left a tiring feeling inside him. Maybe it was because he was just getting older—not that he was walking-with-a-cane old, but more time added to a man's body did funny things to his mind and soul. But he decreed that all deaths he'd taken had been necessary, and that was that.

He tried not to think about it as he sauntered his way down New Mettle's main street boardwalk, able to do little against the eyes watching him. It felt like _everyone _took a look at him. Women, kids, he could deal with. Men, almost all of whom were a bad-looking lot, were another story. A vast majority of them were packing heat, some semiautomatic pistols, some shotguns, and _none_ of these people looked the least bit capable of operating them safely. It was frustrating to travel in such open ground with potential adversaries everywhere, but he didn't have much choice. Only his sense of self-awareness and caution could see him through this.

An unending swirl of aggravation-born thoughts circled his mind: _This bloody town. Nothing but a boil on the ass of the world. Couldn't even have a name that makes sense... 'New Mettle'? Doesn't even mean anything. Where the hell is Old Mettle? Nowhere. What's mettle got to do with anything around here? Just a bunch of hired guns, drunks, and drunk hired guns._

He saw, on the opposite side of the street, a young woman and her child taking care to avoid a pair of rough-looking gunmen in desperate need of a bath. The men spared no expense in sizing her up, smarmy smirks and all. In frustration she hurried away from them, the kid's hand in hers. The men shared a grin, rotting teeth and all. Fang would have given anything to kill them.

He passed yet another bar—it seemed bars and casinos made up more than half of the town—and glanced in through a window. A waitress about his age was struggling to serve drinks to a rowdy group of yet more gunmen. He could hear them laughing and making crude jokes about her bust. One of them tried to lift up her skirt, and she swatted the hand away furiously. He only caught a quick glimpse of her expression, but read her distress as easily as he saw the midday sun.

_Get to the hotel, _a voice said, but he only moved slower. Something inside him hurt. At the same time it was afire with the rage of that same burning sun.

A coyote wearing a brick-red cowboy hat and old-fashioned six-shooter gunbelt eased past him with an amiable: "'Scuse me."

Fang didn't stop, but he hadn't failed to notice the blindingly shiny _City Marshal _badge pinned to the guy's red silk vest. _Great, _he thought, once the initial oddity of seeing a veritable cowboy wranglin' his way around town had passed. Just another annoyance to deal with amidst a myriad of others.

On the other side of the street, a two-story building with a sign reading "_Palm Resort Hotel & Casino – The Most Beautiful Oasis in the Desert!_" came into view. Fang had seen worse-looking places in his life, but not many. The hotel's drab brown paintjob and clay fixture made it almost as appealing as sleeping in a doghouse. He stopped across from it and leaned against a wooden support pillar, studying the entrance and every window he could make out from where he was. He was old enough to know he should take it slow and easy, instead of racing in there and maybe getting his bones blasted from his body like earlier in the mine. He hadn't forgotten that damn setup.

Eventually, when he saw nothing out of the ordinary, save for the fishy characters who kept glancing his way, he hurried across the street and stepped through its wide-open door.

The place was empty, minus an old man at the termite-infested counter, some kind of cat Fang didn't care enough to guess the exact species of. The man looked up from what he was doing, saw Fang, and seemed to just stop, though his expression did not change.

Fang looked back, returning the silent examination. He took his gun out of its holster and ejected the clip before slapping a fresh one in—he was paranoid about keeping it full—and sliding it back onto his belt. The man stared.

"The mole," said Fang.

The old man seemed to hesitate for the barest of moments, then glanced upstairs.

"Last door on the left."

There was a room connected to the main lobby. Fang glanced in there and saw nothing, then turned his attention to the stairs that led to the second floor. He paused, glancing back at the man, who just stared at him.

Then he slowly began heading upstairs, eyes sweeping the area in front of him. He was ready to finish this hunt.

In his anxiety, he failed to notice the man was watching him carefully.

* * *

The customers of the _Black Jack _heard Zipp the Coyote coming long before they saw him, eliciting almost universal facepalming. He was whistling a totally jovial, totally annoying tune (the theme song to _Gunfight at the A-O-K Corral_), his obnoxious spurs jingling a delightful symphony in the background while his big red boots _clomped _repeatedly on the wooden boardwalk leading up to the bar. Zipp was the sort of person who would fail miserably at a game of hide-and-seek regardless of the prize, if only because making an endless sequence of noise meant people were paying lots of attention to him.

He swung open the bar's door with enough flair to severely embarrass everyone who saw it. "_Howdy-howdy-howdy!_"

With an even louder chorus of jingling and clomping, he came marching into the room. "So, y'all havin' a party in here without your beloved town marshal, eh? Can't have none-a-that, nopers, not happenin'. Against city ordnance, that is. Just like firearms and ugly wome—"

He inexplicably stopped and looked down at the floor, where he saw Hondo the Scorpion laying in a pool of his own blood with a bullet hole in his chest.

"... _Ew._"

Most of the bar's patrons had generally centered themselves around the body, unsure of what to do about it. Juarez was at the bar, looking sicker than death itself while the bartender searched for something to settle his stomach. The javelina turned in his seat, saw Zipp, groaned, rolled his eyes, and went back to looking like he had the flu, indigestion, and gonorrhea all at once.

The customers turned their thoroughly annoyed focus to Zipp, who was standing there with his nose upturned.

"Hey, this is the fourth person killed this month!"

"A hell of a peacekeeper you are."

"Why don't you do your damn job for a change?"

"Don't you know how? Does this make any sense to you at all? Are you gonna do something about this?"

"What's the matter with you? You think we're not sick of all this shooting? You think we can walk around safe out there?"

Zipp held up his hands innocently before the angry mob. "Easy there, pilgrims, easy! Hold it! Hold it! Easy now!" By then everyone had calmed down but for some reason Zipp kept going—"hold up, dang it! Goddamnit, shut up!" And he suddenly pulled his six-shooter from its holster and blew a shot straight through the ceiling to quiet an already silent crowd, which for its part screamed and hit the floor like they'd just been dropped from a roof.

"A'righty then," said the coyote, slipping the noisy thing away. "Now, why don't y'all _calmly _tell me what in sam hell happened 'round here?"

"Well, what in thunderation do you _think _happened!?"

Zipp tipped his hat higher over his brow with a thumb and thought for a second. "Somebody... got shot?"

They all glared at him.

"Uh... So... what?" he asked, stone-faced.

"Didn't you see the guy who done it out there!? He just walked out like a minute ago!"

"He did?" Zipp spared a look at the doorway. _I passed by the guy? Hell nah. I didn't pass anybody on the way over here. _"How about that."

"Can't you go arrest him!?"

The plucky look on Zipp's face was erased as if by magic. "What?"

"Go _arrest him!_"

"You... want me to... go after this guy? Who just shot this guy?"

"Yes, _marshal, _that's what we're saying."

Zipp glanced between the customers and the door. He wondered how quickly he could get out of town before someone took a shot at him next. "Well, gee, uh..."

"It was that... that guy that's on the wanted poster you stuck outside your office! He just rolled into town and blew the hell outta Hondo here! Sonofabitch owed me eighty bucks!"

"What're you waitin' for!? What's that badge on your vest mean? It means you gotta get your ass out there and take this guy down!"

Zipp pulled at the silk handkerchief around his neck and cleared his throat. "Well, uh... Hm, well, y'see, it's like this—I don't get paid very much, and—"

"C'mon, _hero, _get out there and do your stuff!"

"Hero?" asked Zipp, before looking contemplative. "Well, I _am _a hero, I reckon."

"Yeah, sure. Now, go."

"And heroes gotta do as heroes does... or somethin', hell, I dunno. But y'know—"

The bar's patrons could only stand there, staring at him, completely bewildered by the cowboy wannabe.

"The world needs more heroes. And folks, I tell ya, ain't many heroes these days. None of this city slicker laws and rules stuff to go by out here in hell's ass, too, tellyawhat. Nope, nothin' like raw, unbridled, untamed law-and-order-bringin' justice of _the west _to set a man's balls in place for the rest of his days—"

"Marshal," interrupted somebody amongst the increasingly agitated crowd.

"Yes?" asked Zipp politely, in the way a man who has no idea what he's getting into does.

"If you don't get out there in the next couple of seconds," came the statement in a very calm, subdued tone, "we're gonna go get a rope, and hang you from it like we're dryin' our laundry."

Zipp stood there.

"And then we're gonna get some sticks, and beat you like you're a fucking piñata."

Zipp just stared back. The crowd returned the gaze with completely stoic expressions. Things had just gotten strangely still outside.

"Ah," he eventually replied quietly, suddenly looking like a lonely man in the middle of a cemetery at midnight. "Yes. Well. _Ahem. _Reckon I'll just mosey on out there and... and get that guy... and bring'im in. Like I'm s'posed to."

And he began shuffling backwards, biting his lip, before turning and marching to the door, spurs and boots at minimal jingling-clomping noise. The crowd watched until he was out the door.

* * *

Fang pulled his pistol from his belt as he stalked down the poorly-lit hallway. The floor was old wood, and he had to take care to remain quiet. His boots, containing hardy steel plating amidst his worn shins, were heavy enough to make a lot of noise when he didn't necessarily want them to do that, but he preferred the protection they gave to anything else. He pointed the pistol at every doorway he passed, before he finally arrived at the specified entrance to what could easily turn into hell, should he go in unprepared. But he was.

He straightened himself alongside the door and stealthily tried the handle. It wasn't locked.

_Here we go, _he thought to himself. In the swiftest movement he could manage he threw the door open and pointed his pistol inside, bolting in and sweeping its tip at everything in sight as a huge burst of adrenaline flooded through him.

Nothing in the main room. The apparent bathroom was the only other fixture present. It wasn't entirely closed, but Fang slammed the bottom of his boot into it as hard as he could. He came damned near blasting it off its hinges, but ignored it in favor of rushing in and doing another sweep, and he found—

--nothing.

The adrenaline was still moving, but Fang was only slowing down. He looked in the shower. Nothing. _The hell—_

He juked his body back out into the main room, where the bed was, and saw no closet doors the mole could be hiding in. He threw his body to the floor and pointed the gun under the bed. Nothing.

_There's... nobody here._

Save for the rotting bed, a small dresser, the old television that probably didn't work, and the table it sat on that was nearly falling apart, there was nothing of remote interest here. There weren't even any bags or suitcases, nothing that might have signaled Claw's presence. Fang's adrenaline rapidly began to dwindle in favor of total confusion.

_There's nobody here._

He stepped closer to the dresser. His hand flashed up and knocked the small clock sitting on it across the room violently.

_THERE'S FUCKING NOBODY HERE!!_

He gripped his .45 tighter, enraged and confused at once. He knew one thing, though--he'd slaughter every gun-toting worm in this whole town, starting with that asshole downstairs. But why would the man lie to him? Was he trying to throw Fang off the trail? Or was he a friend of Claw's? He didn't understand.

_The other rooms. The other rooms! Gotta try the other--_

"Freeze, fleabait."

Fang did so.

After a silent few seconds, he mustered the gusto to very slowly turn in place, pupils dilating. His lip turned down as he struggled to keep from losing his cool.

The gaping maw of a silver semiautomatic pistol was staring him right in the face, and the hand that held it belonged to Sombrero the Gila Monster.

"We should really stop bumping into each other," said the gila monster pleasantly. "I think I can help put an end to that."

Fang didn't even feel the bead of sweat that began to curl down his brow. Few men could keep a straight face while helpless to do anything about a gun shoved in their eyeballs, and Fang knew he wasn't one of them.

"You_,_" he growled, voice deep and grotesque, like something out of a horror movie. Just seeing the reptilian outlaw made his blood run hot.

Sombrero could tell, and he reveled in it. His vile eyes, the only one of his baleful facial features he allowed the world to see, were practically laughing at Fang themselves, biting at the bounty hunter with mocking cruelty. Fang couldn't see it, but knew there was a delightful smirk the size of the moon under the bandana taking up the lower half of Sombrero's face. It was total nirvana for the lizard. It was a nightmare for the weasel-wolf.

"The legendary bounty hunter, caught with his britches down like a schoolgirl." Derisory drenched Sombrero's snake-worthy tone. "Guess that's what happens when you're a shriveled-up has-been cur like you. My new friend downstairs at the desk says howdy, by the way. You'd be surprised what people around here will do for a little bit of money."

Fang breathed through his nostrils loudly, his expression harder than stone as he stood and regarded the bandito before him. The stares of hate that came from each of them could have cut through granite. That lizard... That lizard and his stupid hat and his flashy guns. Fang couldn't believe what was happening. It was just completely unreal, like nothing before that had happened in his life. He'd always been so careful, and now to get jumped by this idiot... It was humiliating.

"Is that all? You don't have nothin' to say before I blow your whole freaking head off your shoulders? No last words? No pleas for your life? No smarmy insults? No raw, steely fortitude and fierce determination in the face of adversity?"

Fang remained silent, looking for a way out of this. He found none.

"That's too bad. I guess I'll just have to kill you. And I was hopin' to have a nice, long monologue."

"Drop yourself dead off a cliff and stay there," Fang said bluntly, able to at least retain his pride.

Sombrero's brow rose, as if he were impressed. "That's a little better. Nice to see some fight in you before I air your skull out."

Fang's crude look didn't change. There was nothing to say that his gun couldn't say better—if he could only use it without getting himself capped.

"Oh, don't worry. They've got a special level of hell reserved for big-shot bounty hunters." Sombrero seemed to enjoy taunting Fang as much as he would enjoy killing him. "A nice little circle where all you macho fucks can hang out and drink beer and share sad little stories about the one that got away. I guess in this case, that'd be me. The pleasure's all mine."

"It wouldn't be, if you were man enough to face me without that thing up my nose. Holster that gun and give me a fair shake."

"Uh-uh." The pistol swiveled ever so slightly from side to side, in unison with Sombrero's shaking head. "Not happening. You're more trouble than you're worth, you cur. I've had to come a hell of a long way. Damn near walking around like I got the crabs, I been sitting on my bike for so long, and all just to kill a broken-down lawdog like you."

"I'm flattered. Out of curiosity, any idea where your boss is?"

Sombrero stared at Fang, with the sort of condescending look one gives a dying animal.

"Are you _still _after that guy? Some bounty hunter you are. I could've caught that idiot ten times over by now if I were in your shoes. But you might be interested to know I saw him peel outta here a couple minutes 'fore you showed your ugly face at this dump. Guess he heard all that shooting you were doing. Don't really care myself; never liked workin' for the guy anyway."

The poisonous look on Fang's face did not give, upon hearing that. He didn't even so much as look like he'd suffered a minor inconvenience.

"He _will _be mine soon," he said in the most undaunted tone the lizard would ever hear.

Sombrero did an admirable job of feigning fascination. "And just how do you know that?"

"There's nowhere else he can hide. Just because the people of this town don't like me doesn't mean I won't find him. This is the only speck of civilization for God knows how many miles around. Nothing north, east, or west of here but death. He'll be mine." Fang nodded. "As will you."

Sombrero gave a derisive shrug. "Maybe in your next life. Now," he pointed with his free hand to Fang's pistol, "you holster _your_ gun."

Fang made no effort to do so.

"I said, put it away." Sombrero's thumb flicked the hammer back with a _chlick _sound that nearly deafened them in the silence.

"You say you're going to kill me. Seems to me it makes no difference whether it's out or not. Maybe I should hold on to it in case you do something stupid. And knowing you," Fang nodded with unnatural confidence, "you will."

Sombrero had no immediate response for that.

His free hand flashed to his other semiautomatic, jerked it from its holster with a unexpected swiftness, and in an explosive _boom, _he shot Fang's gun straight from his grasp. The little black weapon flew into the wall with a crash before clattering to the floor. An extremely alarmed Fang somehow managed to remain motionless.

The lizard stared at him with malicious hatred, eyes narrowing so thin a razor could have cut them.

"Not today."

* * *

Jagged hadn't been making very good time, and he needed to with Fang still God knew how many steps ahead of him. His wonky new airbike, ridiculous as it might have looked with its goofy pink-and-white paintscheme, wasn't by any means easy to pilot, nor particularly fast. It was nothing compared to Dry Horn's. Suspiciously enough, it _felt_ a _lot _like Dry Horn's, maybe with some changed exterior parts here and there, but he didn't think much of that. Instead, he had much more important matters to contend with.

Like trying to figure out why the hell the engine had died.

The hyena was on his knees, inspecting the confusing mess of pipes and engine block, clueless as to what was wrong. The machine had suddenly cut power as he'd been puttering across a sandy rise like a snail out of hell, and he hadn't brought _anything _that could be of remote use in this kind of situation. Jagged had come close to pulling out all the fur on top of his head by then, as he studied the confusing assembly of mechanics. Torque, the Norse God of Motorcycles had thrown up, and bam, there was his ride.

_Guess I should've paid more attention in auto shop. And, uh, gone to school._

He poked some random part jutting from the engine. It fell off. "Goddamnit!"

The next minute was spent entirely on trying to get it back into place. "_Rgh. _Stupid... hate rabbits..."

He stood straight and glowered at the scenery, which consisted of nothing whatsoever in every direction. If there was ever a place that could truly hold the honorable title of The Middle of Fucking Nowhere, he'd found it. Survival was circumscribed by the necessity of fast travel in this harsh land, and he had failed miserably at that—not to mention he was out of water.

He moved to the other side, ignoring the wind whipping at his fur and getting more sand in it. "Damnit, damnit, damnit, damnit, damnit."

A thorough study of the engine on this side revealed a great deal of nothing at all. He stuck his hand inside the maze of metal and nearly burned the thing off on something that was still hot, causing him to almost jump five feet backwards. "**OW!!** _OWWW_-OW-OW! _DAMNIT! _DAMNIT_ DAMNIT _DAMNIT_ DAMNIT!_"

If he ever figured this out, he deserved a medal. He released his aching finger and threw his hands at the cloudless sky in an unfathomable rage, mouth flapping in an incredible salute to swear words everywhere. "Crap stupid shit ass_--_" Etcetera, etcetera.

Stupid Sand Hill. Stupid sand. Stupid wind. Stupid airbike. Stupid Fang. Stupid, stupid, stupid airbike. Jagged kicked the side of the array of steel, praying that would make it do what he said. It didn't. "_WORK!!!_"

He inspected the blamed thing for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes, putting what little knowledge he had of engineering to use. The most Jagged knew about airbikes and motorcycles was how to make them go really fast and make really loud roaring noises, though. That, and they made handy beds in a pinch, especially after being told he couldn't sleep on a bar stool. He began poking and prodding various parts of the engine, as if to input some top-secret combination that made things magically come back to life.

_I—don't—believe—this. I don't believe this. Idon'tbelievethis. I... don't... believe this!_

Exhausted and annoyed beyond all comprehension, he let his ass collapse back onto the idiotic-looking machine's uncomfortable seat and just _oozed _anger.

"Why..."

He put his hands on the handlebars.

"... won't..."

He clenched his ass.

"... you..."

He suppressed his wanton alcohol withdrawal (and failed).

"... _start!?_"

And then he noticed something. The air smelled kind of funny, and he knew it wasn't him.

Jagged slid off the bike, regarded the empty surroundings wordlessly, then looked like he'd just crapped a chicken.

He bent at the knees and looked beneath the airbike. There was a puddle of gasoline in the sand below it, highlighted by periodic dripping from the gastank above. He noticed a line of gas stretching behind the airbike, running all the way back from whence he'd come, as far as he could see—and he could see _far. _All the way back into nowhere. The same scenery that was north of him, and south of him, and east of him, and west of him, and all the others in-between. Emptiness except for that long, horrible line of gas.

Jagged's mouth opened so wide his jaw seemed to almost unhinge itself, like some demon creature born of hell's fire, and there came a word said in the most shrill, unholy, God-forsaken voice ever emitted from a living thing:

"_**FFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUU**__**--**_"

* * *

"—_**UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU**__—_"

Fang and Sombrero paused and glanced at the hotel room's ceiling, unsure of what to make of the sudden expletive from hell that seemed to be soaring across the_ entire world._

* * *

"—_**UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—**_"

Smiley, Speedy, and Shifty looked up from where they sat on their airbikes, situated on a butte that overlooked the long, distant Sand Hill horizon, but well aware of how much gas they had left, unlike a certain hyena.

"That voice sounds awful damn familiar," commented Shifty, staring at the sky.

"No it doesn't, stupid," said Smiley. "Don't be stupid. Idiot."

"Okay, boss."

* * *

"—_**UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU**__—_"

Sergeant Baker's gaze shot up from his desk in Station Square, and he stared at the window, incredulous.

"Bill, what in the shit is that!?" he boomed.

"Probably your wife," was the reply from the area beyond his office's door.

"WHAT!?"

"I said, _nothing, _sir. Probably just a Flickie or something." _Or your wife._

* * *

"—_**UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU**__—_"

Sonic the Hedgehog's ear twitched, but the rest of his body did not move from the comfortable position it was in. The soothing lash of ocean waves battled the word for supremacy.

Tails jolted upright from his beach towel and made a face. He looked sideways at the lounging 'hog, who was wearing ridiculous sunglasses that shone under the bright sunlight.

"Sonic, do you think we should—"

"It's called a _vacation _for a reason, dork."

Sonic jiggled his drink, eliciting the approach of a waiter.

"Another martini, sir?"

"Keep 'em comin', Chachi."

* * *

"—_**UUUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKK**__**!!!**_"

The word departed in a vulgar sweep across the atmosphere to send his message of misery and despair throughout the land of all sentient things. Jagged turned on a heel and plopped into the sand, leaning his back against the useless hunk of machine, staring into the bland, desolate wasteland around him and dwelling on his endless, pathetic misfortune.

_Not gonna cry, not gonna cry. Gonna be a man about this. Not gonna cry._

He sat there, content to look like the personification of miserable. _Not gonna cry._

He looked at his still-hurting finger and sucked on it to lessen the pain. _Not gonna cry…_

Something began beeping quietly. It took Jagged about ten seconds to work up the will to find out what it was. He reached onto his belt and took hold of his cell phone, before looking at its little HUD.

In insultingly bright green neon letters, the words "_YOU'RE FIRED_" screamed up at him, preceded by his GUN supervisor's phone number.

Jag put the phone away. He brought his palms to his eyes, sniffed loudly, and couldn't suppress his immeasurable frustration enough to slow down the rapidly oncoming waterworks.

"Not gonna... not gonna... not-- ah, fuck it."

* * *

"Any little gizmos you got on you that I should know about?" Sombrero asked.

"Besides the foot I'm gonna cram up your ass the second you take your eyes off me?"

"Yeah, besides that."

Fang hesitated, then glanced at his belt, where his fiber cord, extra ammo, and a tiny taser lay. He thought of his knife—and knew he could put it to disappointingly minimal use without bringing immense risk to himself. He wasn't very good with it anyway. It had come in handy at times where his deadeye aim didn't, but there was little point in amateurishly swinging a knife at somebody who was holding two guns. "Just the usual kind of tools a man needs to haul scumbags like you to jail."

"Guess you won't be havin' much need of any of that, where you're goin'. Shame it'll all go to waste. I suppose I can just hold onto it for you, or sell it to the store down the street. What would you prefer?" There was far too much pleasance in the question.

"That you let me go?" Fang asked condescendingly, well aware there was a two thousand percent chance of that not happening.

"Please," said the lizard, "don't insult my intellect."

"And just how am I supposed to insult something you don't have?"

"Speak for yourself, cur. You think I'm so stupid, how'd I get the drop on you? Mr. Legendary Bounty Hunter? Got a reply to that one?"

"If you _were _smart, you'd have killed me already," Fang said. "But if not that, then I guess you've at least got some nerve in you, stalking me all the way out here like some freak."

"It wasn't that hard." Though he spoke as if in glee, Sombrero's voice was embittered with scorn, and there was a scowl to his eyes behind the laughter in them. "You're not as smart as you think you are. All it took was some focus, and bang. Here I am to rain on your parade, asshole."

And then there was almost a twinkle in his eye, as he took immense pleasure in saying: "Plus, let's just say a little birdie helped me out along the way."

The hard look in Fang's expression broke. The grin beneath the white bandana swelled.

"You know what I'm talking about, don't you? God, the look on your face right now, it's just..." Sombrero shivered. "... _so great!_"

"What'd—" Fang started, feeling his level of perspiration increase like never before, "what'd you do?"

"Oh, I just stopped by the ol' home on the range. Saw you there, thought I might as well ask that home's very friendly owner what you wanted, where you were goin'. That kind of thing. Good-lookin' woman. Long cool woman. Not really into goats—usually. But she was _so fine._" Sombrero drank in the horrible look on Fang's face like it were a glass of water. "She kinda needed some pushing to fess up, but it didn't take too long. Especially when her kids came in the room! Man, was that great. Seriously, you'd have to have been there—"

"You little bastard," Fang spat, as the hatred in the room exceeded volcanic proportions, "you're just a slimy, two-bit—"

"Easy, lawdog. I left her just the way _you_ left her." Sombrero cocked his head to one side. "Or did I? Just one more of life's mysteries you'll never get to know the answer to."

Fang shook his head back and forth, the violent thoughts in his mind too much for any normal person to bear.

"Hey, I'll tell you one, just 'cause I'm awesome: _I put the screw in the tuna._"

"If you talk this much to everyone you're about to kill, I think they'd prefer it if you just shot them first and saved your blabbering for afterwards."

"Oh, I only do it when it's someone like you listening. 'Specially after what you did to me. See this?" Sombrero tapped his other pistol's barrel against the white bandage lining wrapped around his shoulder. "Remember? Now how'd we get into this dark, dismal situation, hm? Oh, yeah. It's a real damn shame you missed, isn't it?"

"I didn't miss."

The venomously delighted glint in Sombrero's eyes evaporated. His whole body seemed to freeze up, like he'd just been locked inside an iceberg. Suddenly it was the gila monster who was almost speechless.

"Didn't miss?" he seethed so quietly, Fang almost didn't hear him right.

"I needed you alive, in case you knew where your boss was going." Fang's eyes smoldered as an incredible rage came alive in Sombrero's. "Your big friend was too dead to tell me."

Sombrero was still. The look in his eye became worse with every passing second.

For his part, Fang remained stoic. He could hear the lizard hissing and spitting with unbelievable fury under that dumb-looking bandana. The lizard was almost shaking, but the gun remained still. Sombrero's brow deepened so far into his face it began to obscure his vision. Fang knew he might as well have just ripped the gila monster's dignity from him with a rusty scalpel.

"You... didn't miss."

No response. Sombrero's expression strongly reminded Fang of boiling water.

"_You... didn't... miss..._ Are you kidding me?"

Fang stood there. Horrifically insulted beyond belief, the lizard could only do the same, eyes wider than Fang had ever seen them.

"You... goddamn, miserable, stinking son of a_ cur..._"

"You don't seem to like that," mused Fang.

Sombrero jabbed the gun back and forth in Fang's face, incensed beyond help. "I'm... going... to _kill you... SO __**HARD**__..._"

"Freeze, Fang the Sniper!"

The voice came from behind Sombrero—and a little to his left. The lizard felt his jaw drop open, stared at Fang for a moment longer, then curved his head to the side just enough to where he could look at the voice's owner from the corner of his eye.

Standing there, a silver revolver pointed straight at Sombrero's head, was none other than purported town marshal, Zipp the Coyote.

"What?" sputtered Sombrero, before he repeated much louder, "what!?" then, "_WHAT!!!?_"

"Y'hard of hearing, son? I said stay right there."

Fang remained still, eyes darting between his would-be captor and the new threat on this makeshift field of battle. Zipp was right in the doorway, blocking the closest means of exit. The coyote made no effort to indicate he was aware at all of Fang's existence. Sombrero's eyes somehow got even _wider, _but his own gun seemed locked where it was as if it were nailed there.

"Who in the hell are you supposed to be!?" shrieked the gila monster.

"I'm the law 'round here." Zipp snatched his other revolver in his left hand and began spinning it around on his index finger, while Sombrero stood flabbergasted at both this revelation and the coyote's very presence. "Seems to me some damn ol' fella got himself killed down at the _Black Jack, _and I aim to wrangle in the critter what did the killin'. Keep them hands where I can see 'em, Sniper."

Sombrero went completely slack-jawed under that bandana. Fang caught himself from doing the same.

"You—you think I'm—YOU THINK I'M—ARE YOU_ STUPID _OR SOMETHING!?"

One eyebrow of Zipp's raised over the other. "Well, lesse. Description I had of you said y'had a hat, evil look in the eye, guns, all that. Seems to me y'all fit the description mighty close, buddy."

"Well, WHAT THE HELL ABOUT HIM!?"

Zipp paused, then studied Fang intensely. Fang just stared back, his eyes faintly humorous, but otherwise totally removed from this absurd debacle.

"That ain't Fang the Sniper," Zipp eventually stated in as intelligent a tone he could possibly manage, which was altogether very unimpressive. "That's Nack the Weasel."

"Ahagfk—they—" Sombrero waved his second gun around like he were on crack. "They're—you—THEY'RE _ONE AND THE SAME YOU IDIOT!!_"

"Yeah, whatever. Next you're gonna tell me Sonic the Hedgehog can turn into a werewolf at night. I wasn't born yesterday, son. And I am very insulted by the accusationin' you're pullin' on me like some kinda rookie tinhorn. Now you holster them guns and put your hands on toppa that hat—Say, that is a very nice hat, I'd just like to tell ya—"

Fang watched carefully for an opportunity—any opportunity. He was fast, but Sombrero wasn't as incompetent as he made himself out to be. He knew that from experience, and was well-aware of the risks of grabbing that hand that held the pistol pointed at his nose. Plus, the gila monster was holding another gun, and could plug a wild hostage just as easily as he could spit on the floor. _Damn it, gotta do something..._

His eyes narrowed. He didn't like playing hostage, and wasn't going to put up with it.

"My _name, _you leather-clad moron, is _Sombrero. _They do not call me _Fang the Sniper. _They call me _Sombrero _for a reason. They call him _Fang _for a reason. Why the hell do you think they call him Fang the Sniper? Does this fucking HAT look like a fucking FANG to you!?" Sombrero _tap-tap-tapped_ the pistol's tip against the notorious canine that jutted from Fang's mouth, eliciting an even more irritable expression from the bounty hunter than usual. "What does this look like, huh!? Yeah, this looks like a freaking sombrero, right here!"

"Well, now how'm I supposed to know how you got your nickname? Hell, you might be hidin' one-a-them pointy teeth things inside your mouth. Open up, show me your teeth."

"My—_what!? _No!"

"C'mon," Zipp gestured to Sombrero's mouth with his other revolver (and put it a little too close to it for comfort, too). "Open wide, lemme see."

"Are you crazy, get that thing outta my face!"

"Oh, it's easy. I don't mind if you ain't brushed today, son—"

"What're you, a dentist too? I said _n—_"

"Open yer goddamn mouth and show me!"

"NO!"

"Quit actin' like a putz and _do it!_"

"_NO!!_"

Like a bolt of lightning that suddenly crashed into the room, Fang broke hard from where he stood and flashed towards one of the windows. The feeling of adrenaline racing through his body returned instantly, but he'd been unable to figure out the absolute best course of action to take—and so he had simply opted for the one that most likely wouldn't get him shot. It was his only chance.

Sombrero did a double-take when he realized what was happening. "_Sh—_"

With a jarring _crash _of glass, Fang barreled straight through the room's window. He felt his whole body shudder at the impact, but only then did he actually remember they were two stories up. _Oh God—_

He collapsed onto the boardwalk's roof and rolled once, twice, then thrice. His awkwardly pivoting form ran out of roof tiling. Nobody down on the ground seemed to realize someone was about to make a hard crash-landing, when--

--Fang came falling an entire story down to the dust with a disturbingly deep and flat _thud,_ smack on his side between a couple of townspeople who'd been walking peacefully along. They jolted back, taken completely off-guard.

And he lay still for a moment, for though his mind screamed for his body to take action, he could take none.

He couldn't move his legs, yet they roared at him in pain. By that alone he knew they'd taken the brunt of the impact. It was like nothing he'd felt in them that he could remember. They had hurt him unquestionably before, though for reasons he wasn't sure of, but now was pure hell.

He tried to move again, and only found himself wincing at the fire in his lower body.

Sombrero stared in bewildered disbelief at what had just transpired. He whipped around and glowered at Zipp, who just stood there looking confused. "You... you ruined _everything!_"

"Everything of what?" asked the coyote.

Outside, Fang gasped for breath. He could feel the eyes on him again; his body finally began to obey his mind. _Gotta move—gotta move. _He stumbled to his feet with all the dignity and grace of a newborn calf, and ran. Shocked citizens of New Mettle hurried out of his path, but he could see others purposely moving into it. A chill ran through him.

_I have to get out of h--_

"_RrrRRGH!!_"

There was another crash behind him. He turned in mid-run to spare a fast glance back where he'd come, and saw Sombrero the Gila Monster smashing his way right out of that same hotel window from whence he'd come, destroying whatever part of it Fang had missed. The gila monster leapt straight over the boardwalk's roof in a completely audacious lunge and landed right in the middle of the dusty street on his legs, his enraged state granting him incredible strength. There weren't many sights that could unnerve Fang the Sniper, but his blood ran cold then.

Zipp hesitated inside the hotel room. Calmly, he turned and began to clomp back down the stairs.

Fang's feet clapped against the sand and twisted him sideways. He launched himself towards an alley, half an instant before there was a gunshot. Wood from the building beside him splattered in his face.

Sombrero charged forward like a bull on the rampage. He grabbed a woman unfortunate enough to be near his destructive path and threw her out of the way. "_MOVE!! _All of you get outta the way—"

"That's Fang the Sniper!" somebody ahead of him yelled. "He's got a bounty on him!"

"Five thousand for Fang the Sniper's head!"

"He's runnin' for it! In the alleys!"

"Kill the Sniper!"

"_Kill him!_"

Fang heard it all. _Dirty, mangy bastards. _He was flying around building corners, struggling as hard as he ever had to get through the veritable maze of wood and nails, and find his way back to the _Queen, _his only ticket out of this hell. Behind the main street of New Mettle lay a mess of square wooden homes, arranged in an insult to civil planning engineers everywhere. It made for a hell of a makeshift labyrinth. Fang hurried around a building and just missed having an ear blown off. Another round nicked his thigh. A third cut the tip of his tail.

A feeling he wasn't used to was beginning to force its way into him, and he perspired more from knowing it was there than from his run or the lethality of the world around him.

The feeling was fear.

Sombrero stayed out in the streets, running along each grimy storefront and staring down into the dusty alleys and small side streets for where his prey might have been. No sign of the bounty hunter dared show itself. He continued on like a leopard moving in for the kill, heedless of the various townsfolk hurrying out of his way, lest they reach his notice. He panted loudly, struggling against the will to run inside that puzzle of buildings and get himself lost.

Fang's legs pumped back and forth as fast as he could manage, knowing there were people behind him. He couldn't slow down at all.

Somebody with a gun was suddenly in front of him. Fang slid to a very sudden stop, sand and gravel spitting out in front of his feet. "_Shi--_"

_BOOM. _The man flew sideways, gun flying from his grasp.

"_HE'S MINE, you CURS!!_" came the wild, manic voice of Sombrero, from out in the street. Fang was almost grateful for a nanosecond.

He rounded another corner and made himself slow down to catch his wind. The sudden run wasn't helping his legs; they were becoming agony incarnate.

He cringed, grit his teeth, and shut his eyes as hard as he could, unable to drown out the sounds of shouting and gunfire all around him. He opened his eyes and stared down at his steel-calved boots. A strange feeling of numbness was sweeping through his lower proportions. And yet still they burned, almost to the point of intolerability. Pain jolted from his lower back, down both legs, and into his feet. _Oh God, I hurt._

Breathless, Sombrero peered into yet another alley, wondering just how far deep the maze of buildings went—and _bang _came a shot that missed him by a matter of inches. He whipped around on a heel and brought a pistol to eye level, blowing the unlucky individual who had tried their luck to kingdom come.

_You curs think you can take me!?_

Distracted, he brought his other gun to bear and exploded a shot at another man holding a shotgun. The man stopped short in his tracks and collapsed backwards in a heap. An incensed Sombrero centered his aim down the street and killed yet another man with bloodless cruelty. People scattered.

A quick look into the street was all it took, and Fang realized what was happening. This was his chance. He could get across that violent road of death, find the _Queen, _and—

"You go out there right now and you can kiss your purple ass goodbye, son."

He swiveled around. Zipp the Coyote was holding a door to one of the alley's random buildings open. "In here."

"How the hell did you get—"

"_In,_" Zipp repeated.

Fang didn't waste another second. He was inside that building before almost before Zipp realize it.

Sombrero was getting himself completely lost, by then. He finally gave in to his instinct and ran into the closest alley to him. He stopped once he'd reached the side of a building blocking his path, with two other roads that stretched down towards yet more. _Where the hell did he go?_

He stalked forward at a brisk pace and stared down another alley that led outside the town. He hurried down it, stopped and looked both directions, and there was nothing but distance and desert. _What. The. Hell._

He turned around and— "ARRRGH, GET OUTTA MY WAY!" The man dove for cover while Sombrero throttled the air around his head like a child severely in need of Prozac. "I'LL KILL ALL OF YOU SO FREAKING HARD—"

Zipp watched the gila monster's tirade from a window. "That boy drinks too damn much coffee."

Fang just panted, cringed, and hurt all at once. He had taken a seat on the dirty floor, unable to comprehend what was happening to him. He could hear people running past outside, and others yelling on the opposite side of the building. All for his head. And he was almost completely defenseless.

"Couldn't pay me a million dollars to go out there and get that Fang the Sniper fella," Zipp continued. "They don't pay me enough for this gig to do stuff like that. Boy's a crazy-man." He watched as Sombrero kicked somebody in their posterior and stormed onward, searching endlessly for the bounty hunter he hated so and muttering something about _shoulda stayed in med school._

Fang just sat, concentrating only on what to do. The fear began to leave him. In its place a fire began to burn.

"Can y'move?"

Fang felt his legs, and noticed the pain was beginning to evaporate as well. In poor shape as they might have been, he was tougher than leather, one of the few redeeming traits that had kept him alive this long in such a miserable career filled to the very brim with war stories and battle scars. A few quick bumps and taps with his hand against his thighs confirmed the dissipating aggravation. He didn't know what was wrong with him, but hoped they could hold out for as long as it took to get him through this. He felt his vigor return.

His cold purple face stared at the wall with a deadly glower. These men—they thought he was a coward. They thought he was just someone else—someone who they could push around, like the women and the children. They didn't know him at all. He wasn't going to take this—be treated like this.

_Nobody makes a fool out of me._

These people...

Fang the Sniper breathed harder, the horrible cruelty that dwelled quietly inside of him sparking alive with the fire of a phoenix.

... They'd taste the bitterness of their greed, their stupidity, and their blood.

"No way a fella like you can handle all them boys out there lookin' for your head." Zipp craned his head over his shoulder and watched Fang for a second. "Reckon you oughta—hm?"

He saw Fang had risen, and was near the other door that lead outside into New Mettle's main street, where men and death lay in wait. Zipp cocked an eyebrow.

"You're not—you ain't really goin' out there?"

Fang didn't look back. "I aim to." He stared at the door.

"Y'sure? Y'aint no Fang the Sniper, I'll bet."

Fang didn't answer that.

"Well, hey," Zipp remarked, "y'need a gun?" He gestured to one of the old-fashioned revolvers he carried.

"I'm sure I can find one that's not being used."

And then Fang was out the door before the coyote cowboy could consider offering protest.

Sombrero stared down the other road, waving his pistol at some imbecile who'd tried his luck once and then had taken off in retreat. He was getting even angrier, and it showed with every tone his manic voice yelled. "You try that again, you son of a bitch, and I'll kill you so fast your head won't even have time to spin before I blow it off! You hear me!? _You all _hear me!?"

He turned around and continued stalking the streets like an over-eager dog. "Bunch of goddamned furries! Hate all you furskins so much. All of you can go to—" He raised a pistol and blew a glass window near a fleeing man to hell. "RUN, LITTLE MAN! _HAH-HAH! _Ride like the wind, Bullseye!" He cackled maliciously, a demon-possessed clown laugh not at all suited for someone who wasn't wearing a straightjacket. "Wooo-hahaha! _Yeah!_"

By then the street had cleared itself well of anyone who would challenge his violent authority. Some of them had taken to finding cover on the road's boardwalk, some inside the storefronts, others behind the old-looking automobiles and aerobikes that sat near the bars, most of which were broken-down and rusting.

A drunk-looking gunman stood dumbly and watched Sombrero's crazy antics. He didn't hear the rapidly approaching stomp of boots behind him until it was too late.

Fang slid forward and slammed the soles of his boots into the back of the man's ankles, pitching the gunman completely off his feet and onto a waiting fist that slammed into his kidney. As soon as the effective meatshield was on top of him, Fang felt around the man's belt for a sidearm, grabbed it, and let loose a blazing hail of lead straight at—

"_Hrk--!_" Sombrero dove for cover behind a shed like he was about to get hit head-on by a plane. The wood paneling on the building just behind where he'd been was blown to shit.

Fang jolted to his feet and with his free hand, smashed his meatshield's head into the glass window Zipp was watching from. The man collapsed again in a heap. Fang was finished with him just in time to see another New Mettler rush in with a knife's tip aimed at his nose. He ducked under the flying arm, grabbed the doberman by the fur on the back of his skull, and smashed it into the only remaining glass panel as hard as he could.

"Damn," Zipp mumbled, watching glass spill at his feet while all hell continued breaking loose outside.

The town's gall seemed to re-energize. Someone behind a stack of supply crates took a potshot at Fang, missing by a mile. Fang returned the favor, but in contrast, didn't miss. Another rogue gunman down the street tried their luck. Fang made him pay for it. A stab of fire boomed at him from closer range, and the bullet pounded the storefront behind him, spattering the back of his head with tiny fragments of wood. Fang dealt with that one just as swiftly as he had the others, driven now by pure animalistic instinct.

Sombrero had scrambled to his feet by then. He bent his body up at the edge of the shed, gripped his silver guns tighter, and peeked around just enough to make sure Fang's attention was off him. He took aim, popped off a pair of shots, and knew instantly one had missed, but the other--

--also missed after Fang caught wind of what was happening. After ducking his frame upon hearing the first shot, Fang whipped about and returned the favor.

_Pow _came a shard of metal into Sombrero's face, the round just nicking the side of the shed and spilling paint and debris straight into his eyes. "_NNGH-- _Goddamnit!!"

Fang focused his attention on a trio of gunman taking cover behind a dust-covered car that likely hadn't moved in years. The trigger was pulled three times; only two shots came, and the lucky one quickly understood why. "Ah, _shit--_"

There was a quick whistle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zipp toss one of his gleaming, silver-finished revolvers out the broken window. With speed that could only be witnessed in person to be truly understood by the rest of the world, Fang caught it with his other hand, cocked the hammer back with his thumb, and blew a hole through the third gunman's head a nanosecond before the man was to take his shot.

He tossed the empty gun to the ground, and was suddenly set upon by an SMG-wielding gunfighter who jumped from a nearby alley with alarming rapidness, sudden enough that most men would be able to avoid the surely-coming volley. Fang the Sniper was not most men. With the fluidity and fleeting quickness of a fencer, he spun about in a flash, bent his knees, and palmed the revolver's hammer twice, deep, thunderous booms the last thing this one ever heard.

With one hand, Fang picked up the fallen SMG before it had even finished clattering to the ground. It spat burning death at gunmen racing into the _Black Jack_; the revolver thundered to keep Sombrero at bay.

In the distance he caught sight of someone cooking a grenade. The man must have thought Fang couldn't hit so small a target at such a distance. Fang disproved that theory with a single shot from the SMG that ended that would-be encounter in a fiery explosion that all but blew apart the nearby building's corner.

A round pinged off the SMG and sent it flying from his grasp. Fang juked around on a heel and let the revolver continue its violent song.

There came a shot from behind him, and Fang felt something hard blow through the side of his thigh like a hot knife through butter. The familiar, sudden feeling of pain bolted through his whole body. "_Gah!_" Onto a knee he went, knowing damn well who'd taken _that _shot. _I'm gonna shoot you AND your stupid hat!_

"Geez-almighty, boy, you think you gonna take on this _whole town?_" There was Zipp just behind the open doorway. Fang had been ravaging Sombrero and the beleaguered gunmen from the same spot the whole time.

"I will if I have to!" spat the bounty hunter.

"Like hell you can, more people out there than you got ammo! Get your dumbass in here!" Zipp reached a hand out and hooked it around Fang's arm, pulling him into the building again just as gunfire commenced raining upon them like shells from a battleship.

Zipp dragged Fang over to the other door and paused a moment, examining where the bounty hunter had been hit. "Well, ain't that pretty?" he panted.

Fang spent a moment to check it too, and discovered to his somewhat unexpected distress that his whole right leg was already dressed bright red in his blood. He knew it was worse than it felt—when the adrenaline left him, he'd be hurting.

"Better get that cleaned up—" _Bang! _Zipp almost hit the floor after that one. The round ricocheted off a wall and blew through the roof. He tucked his cowboy hat lower over his head and glanced out the window, where yet more eager gunmen rose like wildfires. "Don't suppose you can ride too well with that, hm? Better git you to Claudia's."

"Why are you helping—" _Bang! _Fang boomed a shot from the borrowed revolver out the window, sending some unlucky soul flailing behind a barrel. "Why are you hel—" _Bang! _Another round burst through the wall near him. "Why the hell are—" _Bang! _"Goddamnit—" _Bang! _"Ah, who gives a shit."

Zipp positioned himself near the building's back door. "Got a truck out there, little ways up the alley. Don't suppose you have any problem rollin' on outta here in that?"

Fang immediately thought of the steed that had served him steadfastly for his whole career, the _Marvelous Queen--_

... and knew getting to it at this point was near hopeless.

"No," he eventually said, the barest tinge of disappointment in his voice at the word.

Zipp seemed to notice, but said nothing of it.

"C'mon." He opened the door, did a quick look-see outside, and hurried into the alley. Fang was right behind him while bullets continued fragmenting the areas around them.

Sombrero dispensed the empty cartridges of his pistols, and was struggling to reload them while still holding both guns in hand. It wasn't a particularly professional- or graceful-looking act, but he didn't care. _Bastards. Gonna come in there and fill you so full of holes, you'll look like a water tank that just sprung a buncha leaks. Or, somethin'... like that. _He was too pissed off by that point to come up with any remotely clever comparisons.

He looked up, realizing the return fire from inside the building had ceased. "?"

_Oh, don't tell me—_

There was a roar of an engine. Sombrero took off from where he stood, down a side street, white boots clomping loudly against the hard-packed earth. He skirted around a corner and saw an open-top truck kicking up a massive cloud of dust as it peeled away from town. In the truck's bed, he could make out a purple figure. "Oh, no you d—"

_POW! _came a shot.

Sombrero felt something _nail _the very top of his left shoulder, something that had come from the distant truck. He rocked on his feet, staggering a few steps backwards, flabbergasted.

He glanced down at where the revolver's round had struck. He looked up at the truck, then again at his shoulder. Blood began trickling down from the wound onto the cartridge belts that criss-crossed across his torso.

_He... he didn't!_

Sombrero studied the wound, then stared at his bandaged right shoulder.

_That..._

_That..._

"AAAAHHHH, _YOU SONOFAWHORE!!! AAAGH YOU BASTARD!!! OHHH I'LL KILL YOU!!!_" _BANG BANG BANG BANG _boomed his pistols in a hopeless rage against the fleeing truck. "_KILL YOU KILL YOUUUU__!!!"_

He ran as hard as he could a few buildings down, where a white-as-bone airbike sat in wait. Sombrero lunged right over the back of it into the pilot's seat, and with a scream, the machine was alive and just as eager to chase down some bounty hunters as he was. _You're not getting away from me! I'll chase you to hell if it means I gotta stay there!_

The airbike rose swiftly, as if an eagle rising to hunt its prey, and one rapid twist of the throttle was all it took to leave New Mettle behind and set Fang the Sniper back in his sights.

_You're wrong, you cur._

Sombrero's eyes locked tight on the truck, bouncing across bumps and sand as it fled. He increased the throttle output with another twist, and he gained.

_... __**You'll **__be mine!_


	14. No Man's Land

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

**

* * *

**

**--Chapter Fourteen – No Man's Land--**

Fang discovered in the time following their escape from New Mettle that Zipp was about the furthest thing from the term _competent driver. _He'd already almost been killed multiple times in the past few days and his unlikely new ally was damn near finishing the job.

In no way, shape, or form did Zipp comfort Fang's feeling of dread with a pleasant ride through the country. Rather, he failed to keep his rusting truck from hitting every possible bump there was to hit on that little trip through the desert, and Fang felt _everything. _He'd been forced to ride in the dirty, grimy bed of the coyote's pile of moving scrap, which was already filled with various sorts of crap the coyote had tossed in there for whatever idiotic reason, including a fishing pole, a surfboard, half of a mattress (?), a wagon wheel, and something that Fang was sitting on and couldn't see but it was making his hindquarters itch. Add in that Sand Hill was a mess of nature with small mesquite, palo verde, rocks, and sand dunes covering every inch of their makeshift road, and it wasn't an enjoyable ride in the least possible sense.

Plus they were being chased by a homicidal maniac on a flying motorcycle. That didn't help things either.

"Can't this piece of garbage move any faster?" Fang yelled from the truckbed, trying to get a bead on Sombrero with the borrowed revolver and not having too easy a time with it, partially because Zipp's radio was on with the volume up to ridiculous levels—and it was half-broken, stuck on a station that seemed to play nothing but mariachi music.

"Now, son, you can't rush these things. Gotta take it nice a slow through this here country—"

There was a shot from behind them. A bullet ricocheted off the top of the driver's side mirror, and Zipp saw Sombrero just above the _objects in mirror may be closer than they appear _line. "Well, I guess we could go a little faster."

"Thank y—"

Zipp floored it, sending Fang reeling flat onto his stomach and pitching him towards the back of the truckbed in a catastrophic jumbling of weasel-wolf and junk one might see at their local Mexican swap meet. Zipp sent the truck straight over a dune, thoroughly unaware of the battlefield that was happening a few feet behind him.

Fang grabbed the side of the truck for support, fighting to ignore the pain that thumped throughout his thigh. He'd found a long slip of cloth in the truckbed a few moments after they'd departed town (he half-expected to find a whole hospital emergency unit in here eventually) and had wrapped it around the wound. It had helped stop the bleeding, at the very least, but it would need better attention, and soon. With luck they'd reach Claudia's, provided this incompetent doofus some three feet away from him didn't get them all killed first.

He saw Sombrero rise higher into the sky, perhaps to get a better bead on him. Fang lined the revolver at the bastard and fired, feeling the deep resonance of the old-style gun's explosive power rumble through his whole arm.

Sombrero's airbike skirted sideways, as if a frightened wolf yielding to a superior beast. That wouldn't keep him away for long. There was no outrunning an airbike. In the hands of a capable operator, they were quicker and nimbler than anything short of a fighter jet—the prime reason Fang used one himself. They required a great deal of training and patience on the part of the rider and they couldn't hold much weight, which was why they weren't nearly as popular as conventional vehicles, but trained and patient were two areas Fang excelled in.

"Hang on," Zipp yelled.

Fang clung to the side again for dear life, hoping it wouldn't be the last thing he ever did. Nothing happened. He looked through the back window at the coyote. "What are you talking ab—"

_Ka-bump _went the truck over what seemed to amount to nature's fiercest speed bump. Fang felt himself catch air, felt himself land back on the hot metal truckbed, and then wasn't sure if he felt anything at all for a few seconds.

"Told you to hang on."

Sombrero saw the truck put its shocks to the test. He noticed the subsequent lapse in the shooting, and had enough gall to speed straight up to the side of the truck, right at its rear quarter panel. Zipp, with all his worldly abilities of perception and understanding, failed to notice entirely, instead humming along to the noisy and increasingly irritating music he was driving Fang crazy with.

The gila monster wasn't interested in him, though. He wasn't going to waste bullets on that bozo—Fang would catch them all. He stared at the truckbed for a few seconds, anxiously waiting for the bounty hunter to reappear.

There was nothing. When Fang didn't pop back up, Sombrero just sat there. He eased his airbike closer to the other vehicle while they sped along, a disturbed feeling of anxiety in his eyes as he examined all the stupid crap Zipp had put back there. _Where in blue blazes did he go--?_

Fang was only coming back to his senses right then, and the second he did, he realized Sombrero was peeking over the edge of the truck. "Holy Chri—"

"Ohshit—" sputtered the lizard, drawing his pistol over the edge--

Fang's hand shot out like lightning to catch the gila monster's gun by the barrel, to try and keep it pointed at anything other than himself. His other arm abruptly fired forward, and his knuckles landed flat on the bandito's face, rocking him like an axe cuts wood. Sombrero dropped the weapon and reeled sideways, somehow maintaining his balance while his airbike skittered around behind the truck like a wounded animal. "_Ooouucch!!_"

"The hell's goin' on back there?" Zipp glanced into the rear-view mirror and watched a teary-eyed Sombrero struggle to maintain his grip on the bike's handlebars as well as his sanity.

"Just fly-swatting." Fang shook his hand and rubbed his knuckles, grimacing. _Can't say that didn't feel good, though._

"YOU'RE GONNA BE COMBING LEAD OUT OF YOUR FUR WHEN I'M DONE WITH YOU!" came a high-pitched shriek from their six.

"What'd he say?" Zipp asked.

"I don't know, I can barely hear _you. _Turn off that damn radio!"

"What's that you said now? _Take a shortcut?_"

Fang felt his nauseating feeling of dread worsen. "That's, wait—that's not even close to—"

"Alrighty then!" The truck fishtailed erratically through sand, dirt, and mesquite, slashing the desert air with a big blast of smoky dust. Zipp sent the truck around a winding bend, across another bump that made Fang contemplate focusing the rest of his aim on the coyote, through a huge thicket of palo verde, and suddenly Fang saw the shortcut Zipp the Coyote was really talking about.

"Wait—wait, no, no! _NO! NO NO, WAIT I CHANGED MY MIND—"_

The oblivious driver steered the vehicle straight into what might as well have been the stairway to hell. The truck landed right onto the beginning of the notorious hill for which Sand Hill was named: the miles-long, downhill sand-surfing circuit so popular with thrill-seekers and adolescent blue hedgehogs everywhere.

"Changed what?" Zipp asked above the increasing roar of wind that came with accelerating to speeds so unsafe they'd give astronauts delirium.

_I should have just stayed home, _Fang thought as the real nightmare got underway. A pair of sand-surfers confusedly watched the truck beat and bang and backfire its way down the course above the noise of hopelessly embarrassing mariachi music.

Sombrero watched it all in subtle horror (which was nothing compared to the horror Fang felt at the moment). "You have _got_ to be kidding me."

He drew to a slow stop at the very top of the hill, staring down into the natural canyon while Zipp's truck blazed on like the world's ugliest sand-surfer through the circuit. Sombrero looked ahead of where it was. A long, winding line of glimmering gold rings hovered just above the ground, peaceful and quiet. He watched as the truck battered through them haphazardly, spraying rings in a million different directions, complete with the obligatory sound effect.

He dwelled on the fact that no one had ever driven a wheeled vehicle onto that course and lived to tell the tale. He contemplated getting higher altitude and waiting for the inevitable crash and the nice, big explosion that would hopefully ensue directly afterwards. That would deal with Fang quite nicely, but that meant Sombrero wouldn't get to kill him. If there was one thing Sombrero hated in addition to the many, many things he hated, it was indirectly killing someone or something that he wanted to very directly kill.

He looked at the bandage on his shoulder, then at the wound he had very recently attained. He deliberated with himself silently.

"... Screw it." He jammed his hand against the throttle and charged headlong into the course after them. He knew how to play hardball.

Fang felt his internal organs swish around every which way with each jolting, high-G turn the truck made. The high red canyon walls screamed past in the sides of his vision, but he was too focused on not trying to get hit by all of Zipp's garbage to pay much attention to the interesting blur that was the scenery. He spared a look ahead of where Zipp had pointed the truck, regretted it when he saw the driver obviously had no real idea where the hell he was going, and turned back just in time to get hit on the head by part of a baseball foul pole Zipp had picked up somewhere.

They flashed through red-and-white posts lining the course for no reason other than to give surfers something to do or perhaps crash into. Zipp somehow steered the truck through all of them (for no reason Fang could see), heedless of the impending danger behind he and his new buddy in the proverbial backseat.

Sombrero's bone-white airbike roared up to them, doubling the sand spray that kicked up in their wake. He had his other gun out by then, and was pointing it at the truck's left-rear tire--

"_Right!_" Fang yelled.

Zipp, naturally, turned left, very nearly plowing into the front of Sombrero's ride.

"_HO-LEE—_" A completely flabbergasted Sombrero broke hard left and sliced sideways through one of the posts, which would have been an amazing feat if he had actually meant to do it, and if the back of the machine hadn't slapped one of the next posts and sent the flying bike into a nausea-inducing spin. "_Agkhgh--!_"

Fang huffed, angry with both of these halfwits, then realized he'd been holding that breath in for the last minute. He focused the barrel of the revolver at Sombrero again, thumbed the hammer back, and pulled the trigger. A sharp click told him she'd run dry. _Great._

So much for doing things the easy way. But Zipp had a whole yard sale back here, and there might have been something remotely helpful to their cause somewhere. He searched the truckbed as Sombrero collected himself and hurried to catch back up, eager to turn Fang into the living equivalent of swiss cheese. _Something, anything..._

He spared a glance at the gila monster. Sombrero was right there, close enough that Fang could almost feel the gila monster's anger; it seemed to radiate off him in entire waves. _He's too close--_

No time to be choosey. Fang grabbed the first thing his hands could get a hold on, and he wound up and lobbed Zipp's big, yellow-paged phonebook right at the persistent outlaw.

Direct hit. That was about the last thing Sombrero was expecting to have his face run into, and he was left cross-eyed for what must have been almost ten seconds. But he was still on his bike.

"Don't you have anything—" Fang paused to try and keep his lungs in place while Zipp flew around another downhill turn with all the subtlety of a race car driver on drugs, "—useful back here!?"

"What?" replied the lunatic at the wheel while a blaring trumpet solo began.

"I said, _don't you have anything USEFUL BACK HERE!?_"

"Gesundheit!"

"Damn it, IS THERE ANYTHING BACK HERE THAT CAN HIT _HIM_ INSTEAD OF _**ME!!?**_"

"Oh—_ohhhh, _oh! Okay. Yeah!"

Fang waited.

"WELL?"

"Well what?"

"WELL, _WHERE IS IT!?_" Fang was one word away from clamoring into the passenger's seat somehow and smashing the coyote's face against the steering wheel until he'd pounded the guy's head into a fine, powdery dust.

"Should be there towards the back, next to you! Been saving it for a rainy day occasion!"

Fang examined the indicated spot near the drop-down, noting something covered by a childish blanket with pictures of cowboys on it. He removed it to discover a big, black, heavy-looking cannon, clearly a relic of a long-past war. "What the hell?" _I've been rolling around in this stupid junk heap with this freaking thing next to me? _He didn't even want to know how fast they'd be going if the dumb thing weren't there.

"She's a beaut', ain't she? Picked it up a pawn shop in Emerald Town. Nice an' cheap too. I think it's real!"

"Terrific. Do you have any ammo?"

"Some what?"

"Some ammo! A cannonball!"

"Why would I have a cannonball back there?" Zipp wondered.

"WELL YOU'VE GOT EVERYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD BACK HERE, YOU JUST POINTED THIS THING OUT TO ME AND NOW YOU TELL ME I CAN'T EVEN _USE IT!?_"

"Y'could always just throw it." And he said this as if it were one hundred-percent truth.

Fang grabbed the revolver, wound up as if about to sling it through the window at the coyote's skull, and somehow kept enough control of his senses to keep from doing so and getting them both killed, however worth it that might have been.

They picked up speed. If Fang didn't know better, the truck seemed almost to have a nitrous oxide system installed, but he sincerely doubted it, and instead concluded it was just something else that had decided to happen for no explainable reason in what was quickly becoming the worst day of his life. _I think I'm going to be sick._

And then he felt worse, for he saw a turn approaching rapidly, with no mountain or rock to stop them if they missed it. It was a long drop-off towards the bottom of a ravine, its sides spotted with cactus and plantlife. "_WATCH THE CLIFF!_"

"Yeah, yeah." Zipp swung the wheel hard and roared the truck around the turn like a world-class rally driver. "Settle down."

Fang slammed into the side of the truckbed again and took one look over the edge of it. It was a _long _way down. _I can't take any more of this._

Sombrero's eyes shot as open as they'd go when he saw the truck suddenly veer hard left, and suddenly there was nothing but that intimidating cliff drop-off ahead of him. "_SHIIIII—_"

The airbike soared off the edge, and continued hovering along in the air.

"—_IIIII_oh, right."

Fang looked ahead of the truck. Did this course _ever end? _He saw a sand surfer just barely avoid getting turned into roadkill. Fang slumped into the truckbed again and prayed he made it out alive, even if no one else within the surrounding mile did.

Sombrero was back on them, and hell-bent for an end to this. He drew right up behind the truck, his speed beyond anything Zipp could hope to achieve in the rolling insult to automotive design, and Fang was lost for a second. If a big book to the face at what felt like a thousand miles per hour didn't take that guy off his ride, what would? _Oh no._

Sombrero seemed to realize his opposition had nothing to offer. He sped closer and laughed loudly when Fang was close enough to hear him well, a sickening, vile laugh that could have made hedgehog fur bristle.

"Say your prayers, _cur!!_" The black maw of the pistol rose to finish this chase, this cruel struggle once and for all.

_BUMP _went the truck over yet another bump, and it seemed the truck's drop-down hatch had had enough of Zipp's unique driving style by then. It whumped flat open, and that big old cannon went rolling and bumping straight out the back, landing square against the very front of Sombrero's airbike to a noisy _wham._ The unfortunate and extremely shocked rider was hurtled right off the seat and out into open air. "_AAAAAHHHHHH—_"

Fang allowed himself to relax slightly and was rewarded by having his body slammed into the truckbed side when Zipp juked the truck hard to the right for some reason. "_Hurk—_"

He quickly understood why: to avoid the biggest, thickest patch of cacti Fang had ever seen, the same patch Sombrero was headed for in the midst of his spectacular wipeout. Fang winced, partially from the loud and drawn-out expletive the gila monster was espousing, but not enough to not see the impact. He owed the guy that much.

A big, green explosion of saguaro cacti blossomed where Sombrero disappeared, quickly followed by his airbike, spinning and clattering wildly into the patch after its master. Fang let loose another breath, thankful that it was over.

Sort of. "Hey!"

"What?"

"Hit the brakes, we lost him!"

"Can't."

It took Fang three or four seconds to completely understand what had just been said to him.

"What?"

"Can't."

"... _Can't—can't—_" Fang looked at the oncoming paths, which looked like nothing more than complete blurs still.

"Is this a bad time to mention that this thing don't _have_ any brakes?"

Fang didn't answer, but instead chalked it up to it being another anomaly in this seemingly endless comedy of errors as he gripped the side of the truckbed to keep from rolling out the back himself, though he wondered if that might result in a better fate than what probably lay in store for him.

"Yeah, I figured they'd only slow us down. Gotta keep this baby nice and light." Nevermind that none of that statement made any sense to Fang. "Don't worry, though, I'm a damn good driver. I'll have you know I once finished third in the Capital City 500. I'll find a way to get us slowed dow—"

The truck slammed into a massive, wall-like dune, obliterating both earth and machine and bringing it to what felt to those inside like the single fastest stop anyone in history would ever feel. An immense burst of hard-packed sand and dirt boomed into the air, followed quickly by the loud and extremely jarring sound of impact, which sounded like a truly horrendous mixture of a sandy _crunch, _an atomic bomb detonation,and the loud expletive Fang screamed.

When Fang found enough energy to haul himself from the broken mess of twisted metal some minutes later, he quickly lost his sense of balance and slumped into the sand. Zipp followed suit shortly after.

"Hoo," said the coyote.

Fang glowered half at Zipp and half at the ringing in his ears, unable to get the sound of fanciful trumpets out of them.

"Like somethin' out of a video game, there."

Fang clamored to his feet with notable effort, ignoring the cowboy wannabe as best he could.

"Wonder if anyone's ever driven a real car on this course. Nah, nobody'd be stupid enough to do that."

Fang grumbled something under his breath and began walking away from the scene of the disaster.

"Oh, hey, we're leavin'. Okay."

And sure enough, Zipp hopped right to his feet and shuffled after him. Fang sighed.

* * *

The hot desert sun burned down at them as they marched through the bleak, barren wild. The sun would not set for another hour, leaving Fang with a strong distaste in his mouth for his situation. He wasn't sure what was worse, though—the tiresome walk through this death valley, or the unending jingle of those stupid cowboy boots clomping along in the sand next to him.

"Sure is hot," commented the coyote. "Boy, it ain't been this hot for as long as I can remember. Out in _the west _they've got hot, but damned if it ain't a hot that this hot can get so hot I tell ya what it's hot."

Fang ground his teeth together, incensed at the very notion of having to trek through the steaming desert with this talkative dimwit and how he suddenly felt twice as hot as before.

He scanned the distance and was disappointed at what he saw, as usual. The heat left a quivering shimmer on the horizon, blocking his view of anything out there that might have been helpful or otherwise. Water, of course, had been the one thing Zipp _hadn't _had in the truck, too, a fact Fang remembered as he tried to swallow above his swelling tongue.

The sheer monotony of their plodding walk would have driven most men crazy, but to do so with this idiot beside him was another story altogether. That much made itself clear when Zipp said, "So, buddy, what were you doin' out there in that crazy town?"

"I'm not your buddy," Fang grumbled.

"Well, hey, seems to me that a fella needs himself nothin' more than a friend in this kinda situation. I mean _blah blah blah..._"

Zipp's incessant rambling gave Fang a chance to think about other things, which was about the only thing he could do in this unending nightmare, where the sky burned white like a hot sheet of tin foil. He removed his hat and wiped at the sweat that darkened the fur on his forehead.

He had neglected the words of the townsfolk in New Mettle, as he'd been under too much pressure to give it much thought, but their words rang in his mind now that he had nothing better to do than walk and try to drown out the sounds of the weirdo next to him. Something about a bounty on his head—five thousand, if he recalled correctly. That complicated things immensely. He could lay low for a while after dealing with Claw and anyone else in the way, but bounties did not just go away. He knew that better than anyone.

He tried to put the pieces together. What had brought that to happen? Nobody would sure as hell miss Dry Horn enough to go after the guy who'd done him in, and the bounty on Fang had popped up too fast for it to be linked to Hondo the Scorpion's death. Had Baker talked? Fang dwelled on what he'd done to the sergeant, but told himself it had been necessary to get the money he was owed. It was a very awkward, very dangerous situation.

"Why is there a bounty on me?" he asked, interrupting Zipp's current spiel about _the west._

"Say what?" replied Zipp.

Fang remembered he was dealing with a total moron.

"Why is there a bounty," he was careful to enunciate his words sufficiently, "on Fang the Sniper?"

"Oh, well, hm. Y'know what, I don't remember. Think it had somethin' to do with a tinhorn, and, uh, some kinda... thing? Something. I think he did something... bad, and other people probably, y'know... didn't like it. So... they put out a bounty on him. Complicated stuff."

Fang glared at him.

"Never did know nothin' 'bout that sorta thing." Zipp plucked the goofy town marshal badge from his red vest, regarded it for a second, then tossed it into the sand. Fang didn't bother bringing it up. "Me, all I know is, if a man done somethin' wrong, he gotta pay the price. And the fella he wronged needs to be the one to collect that price. Makes enough sense to me, that. Doesn't need to be no more complicated than that, if'n' you ask me."

"Maybe." Fang took care to step over a small cactus, considering what he'd been told. "Collect enough prices and you're inviting trouble. A lot of people can't handle that."

"Man's gotta be ready for trouble. Like when he's lost out in the desert. Any man who doesn't take a good supply of water with him into the burnin' hot wasteland is a blame fool."

Fang's irate expression stiffened. _I hate you so much._

"Yep, I like the simple ways, myself. Gotta know when to hit leather with your ass and paint somebody red with your shootin' hand, _blah blah blah..._"

Fang stopped listening again and tried to concentrate on anything but how hot it was. He would have given anything to be back in the miserable little hole that was his home, away from this no man's land where the only indication of life was an occasional sun-dried skeleton. He was beginning to wonder if this was worth the potential three hundred grand reward, however badly he wanted it. Most men would have likely given up or been killed by now, and although Fang was by no means on the same pedestal as most men, he had his limits too.

How hard should it have been to catch an idiot like Claw? It should have been no more complicated a hunt than any other, but he'd failed spectacularly to finish the job quickly and efficiently. This had been one horrible experience after another, and he knew it was going nowhere fast.

He considered it and felt weaker at the thought. Lethal as he was, he did not have as great foresight as he'd had when he was younger, if the little trap in the mine was any indication of that. Claw wasn't very smart—at least Fang didn't think so—and he'd tried something like that against the so-called greatest bounty hunter in the world and almost succeeded in pulling off what that trap had been meant to do. Fang knew he was lucky to be alive.

How many times had the mole gotten away? Fang didn't care to count them up. All he knew was that it was becoming a very tiresome pursuit.

Zipp led him around a corner of high rock, then stopped and sighed a loud breath of relief. "There it is."

Fang joined him, overlooking the desolate plateau that was their destination. It was the small ranch home he had visited earlier, and he felt something inside him tighten. _This place?_

Sombrero's words had not been forgotten. Fang hurried forward, ahead of the coyote as he clamored down the rise towards the plateau, and Zipp was left in his dust. "The hell? Hey, whoa, Nacky, wait up!"

A horrible fear at what he might find inside bunched all of Fang's nerves together. Across the wide yard he sped, hopping right over the old wooden fence and up to the front door, a noisy clomping of his heavy boots sounding his arrival on her wood porch. He tried the handle, and found it was locked. Should he have been relieved? He stood there, wondering if he should knock, and couldn't bring himself to yet.

Zipp caught up about then. "The hell is wrong? Y'actin' like you ain't even got a hole in your leg. Never seen a boy been shot who acts like he's runnin' a damn marathon."

Fang banged his hand against the door a few times.

Total silence from inside.

"We gotta get in there," he said, studying the exterior of the home. It looked lonely in the late day sun.

"What, she ain't home?" Zipp blubbered.

"She might be in trouble." Or worse, he didn't mention.

Zipp stared on, lost. "How d'you figure that?"

Fang didn't answer. He stepped off the porch and hurried to a window. No movement inside, as far as he could tell. "Help me open this window."

Zipp bashed the butt of his revolver into the glass, splattering the inside floor with glimmering fragments.

"That's not really what I meant."

"I opened it, didn't I?"

Fang reached it and unlocked it, before pushing up its remains and climbing through. He landed to a soft crunch of glass beneath his boots and examined the interior of the ranch home while Zipp made an embarrassingly clumsy effort to clamor through it after him. Fang held his hand out to Zipp's remaining pistol and told him, "I need that."

He half-expected some backtalk, but Zipp just shrugged his shoulders and tossed it over. "Careful with that. It's loaded." He failed to notice the bounty hunter's roll of the eyes.

The hallway was unlit, as were the other rooms Fang saw. He made his way through each of them carefully, ever fearful of what he might come across. That bastard gila monster. Fang gnarled his teeth together. _Should've killed him when I had the chance._

Zipp was still confused over what was going on, but didn't ask questions for a change. Fang was thankful for that.

"Nothin' looks outta the ordinary," said the coyote, peeking around a corner into the home's kitchen.

"That doesn't necessarily mean everything is fine." Fang glanced into the room that apparently belonged to the kid who'd greeted him at the door when he'd first come across this place. "Keep an eye out."

His frustration curled his aggression into a terrible thing that consumed his focus. Fang huffed loudly, angry at Sombrero, angry at himself for letting her get involved in this increasingly-hopeless series of mishaps, angry at everything he could possibly be angry at. The first person who'd ever willingly and happily helped him out with something, and he might have gotten her killed, or worse. _I swear, if he did anything to her, I'll go back there and shove a cactus so far up his ass, he'll be able to taste it._

He heard footsteps from behind a door. It was situated away from the other rooms, and Fang hurried to one side of it while Zipp took the other. Fang cringed at the incredible amount of noise the coyote made in doing so. What was the point of those spurs anyway? _This guy couldn't sneak up on a sloth._

They waited until the footsteps had gotten closer. Fang pulled the hammer on the revolver back; he had no idea what he would find. With a long breath, he grabbed the doorknob and fired the door open, like it had just been struck by a fierce gust of wind.

Claudia shrieked and took a clumsy step back onto a basement stair step, grabbing at the railing on the wall as he did so. Fang and Zipp both ended up doing the same, relief flooding through the former.

"What are you doing here!?" she yelled, shocked beyond belief at the sight of not only Fang the Sniper, but at the bozo who was supposed to be back in New Mettle doing a bad job of keeping law and order. "How did you get in?"

"The main way in was locked, so we made a new one." Fang glanced back at their little entry-way. Zipp looked far too proud of himself.

The goat followed his line of sight, then rolled her eyes, utterly flabbergasted at what was happening. She didn't look any worse for the wear—nothing about her indicated rough treatment by Sombrero. No bandages, no cuts, no look in the eye that made her fate obvious. But her anxiety unsettled Fang. After having a visit from Sombrero, he'd have thought she'd at least relax a little with them around. He was about to ask about it when she said something.

"I don't think you should be here." She was looking straight at the Sniper. "You should go."

Fang just stared blankly.

"Hey, hold on there," interrupted Zipp. "You know what kinda route we had to take to get here? We just got chased outta town by a buncha crazy gunmen. Damn near got our heads blown off our shoulders. And old Nack the Weasel here got himself shot in the leg. Thought we could come here to get some help."

"Well, you—" she looked clueless as to what to say. "I don't know. But you can't—you—"

"Why? You got a frickin' pest controller sprayin' the house for termites?" Zipp's hands met his hips while Fang stood there staring back at her silently. "We both just came about an inch from havin' our lives blown out of our bodies. You can't even get us some medical assistancin'?"

She was quiet, then, thinking to herself. Then she said, "Alright. Follow me."

She led them into her kitchen. "Wait here."

When she was gone, Fang eyed Zipp. It took the coyote an annoyingly lengthy amount of time to notice he was being stared at, and when he did, he just stood there looking back.

"What is it?" he eventually asked.

Fang didn't respond immediately. His eyes shifted away to study the kitchen, and the adjacent rooms. The house didn't look like it had seen any trouble—nothing seemed out of place. But that feeling wouldn't go away. She'd made him uneasy, and he couldn't explain why yet.

"Nothing," he said.

Zipp helped himself to an apple on a table. "You sure were anxious to get your butt down here. How do you know this girl anywho?" He bit into it to discover it was a fake plastic one, and kept eating anyway.

"I don't," Fang said in a tone that indicated he wasn't quite in the mood for small talk at the moment.

"Really? Man, ever'body over in New Mettle knows Claudia. She's great."

Fang said nothing.

"She helped 'em build the school over in town. Not much of a place, but all the girls in town say it's got a woman's touch. Not a damn clue what in the hell that means. But she's a good lady."

"Yeah," breathed the bounty hunter. He wanted to only half-listen, but couldn't bring himself to.

"Don't know too much else about her. But she's a catch. Tell you what, I'd shoot for her myself if she wasn't married."

Fang didn't answer that, but instead contemplated what had just been said.

He examined the home further, searching every inch of wall he came across, then stepped out of the kitchen and into a den. It looked hardly different from any other he'd seen in his time, but Fang the Sniper noticed things most people wouldn't catch. It was just a feeling of situational awareness he'd acquired, a necessity in order to survive in his difficult profession. He moved closer to a cabinet, where a trio of framed pictures sat, but one of them had somehow been knocked over—or so it looked.

Fang picked it up, examined the image, and was not particularly surprised at what he saw.

Claudia stepped into the room then, holding bandages and black bottles in her hands. "I don't have much, but—"

She stopped talking when she saw what Fang was holding. The look on her face hardened.

"You certainly have interesting acquaintances." Fang's features sat without expression, but hidden in his stone-cold eyes lay a crude mixture of disappointment and anger. He tapped his finger against the picture of Claw. "Do you dally often with wanted criminals?"

Claudia stared back at him, her eyes alive with fear, and perhaps something else that Fang couldn't put his finger on yet. She did not reply.

The obnoxious jingling of spurs signaled Zipp's entrance into the room. He gulped down the rest of the fake fruit and took a look at the picture Fang was holding. "That's a damn nice picture of your husband, Claud'. How's that short old fool doing?"

"He'd be fine if these bounty hunters who don't have anything better to do but harass him would leave him alone for a change."

An awful look flashed to life on Fang's face, and he fired the frame straight into the floor, shattering the glass with a loud crash. The violence startled both goat and coyote, who took awkward steps away from the Sniper.

"Your husband is a walking check for three hundred grand," he snarled hideously. "You were a fool to marry a thief and a would-be murderer, because when he shows up here, I'm going to rip every inch of fur off his body and hang him out to dry until he's seen a slow death for all the horrible things it is, and only _then _will I consider taking what's left of him to the authorities. He gets the special treatment, because he tried to bury me under a goddamn _mountain. _I didn't appreciate that."

Zipp looked back and forth between them, still lost.

"Is that so?" She failed to look impressed. "Why do you think he did that?"

"It doesn't matter. If he'd have come quietly, I might have been easier on him, but not anymore. You'll never see him again if I have anything to do with it. That's what you get for choosing a suitor who thinks it's a good idea to rob banks and piss people like me off."

"Uh-huh." The goat nodded slowly, the way someone does when they're dealing with a fool. It succeeded in irritating Fang even more. Then she said, "And just what makes you think he'll show up here?"

The bounty hunter's head lowered, squinting his black eyes at her. She reached into her pocket and produced, of all things, a cell phone—one of the only pieces of decent technology Fang had encountered since entering Sand Hill.

"Maybe I just called him and told him not to come home."

Fang's muscles tensed and his pupils constricted into little dots. He looked like he'd just been slapped in the cheek with a glove. He shut his eyes and gnarled his teeth together, a terrible feeling spreading throughout his whole body. He could have killed her had he a shorter leash on his state of mind, and he fought hard to keep his nerves in check. It wasn't working very feel.

Zipp noticed Fang's mental blue screen of death. "Uh, hey, buddy, you okay?"

Fang ignored him as a downright repugnant expression curled onto his face.

"Claw and Claudia," he said, realizing it was the first time he uttered her name out loud. "That's real cute."

"Just a matter of happenstance, I suppose."

"Where do you expect he'll go? Back to town?"

"He's got enough money to sit around there for as long as he wants. But judging by that hole in your leg, and from what your friend here told me, sounds like you're not welcome back there any time soon." Then she tacked on in an effortlessly simple tone, "I'm sorry to hear that."

He didn't know what was pissing him off more—Claw's elusiveness or her insulting simplicity. Never had he endured such a torturous situation, and to have this sort of twist slap him in the face was humiliating. Fang breathed through his nostrils loudly, fighting to find something to say that would cut her down, something that would prove he would still get that darting little bastard whom he'd never met yet hated so dearly. He could find nothing.

Claudia folded her arms and waited. Fang said nothing, staring out a window. He couldn't remember ever being so exasperated.

"You seem disappointed."

"Your observational skills are exceptional," he snapped with such frustration that a visibly annoyed Zipp winced.

"Maybe you should go outside and cry a river for us, then."

"Maybe I should just _burn this damned house to the ground!_"

"You guys aren't fighting, are you?" interjected a new voice.

Fang's head whipped to one side. One of her kids was in a doorway, watching them with a curious stare. Fang paused, then looked away, trying to bottle his anger up as best he could, knowing he was losing his temper. Many terrible things happened when he lost his temper—some things he didn't like to think about these days in life. He turned his back to the little goat and shook his head silently.

Her vexation with Fang seemingly evaporating in a heartbeat, Claudia turned to her son and stepped forward. "Honey, no—"

"Yes," mumbled Fang.

"_No. _We're not. We were just talking about Claw."

"Oh," said the kid. "'Cause it sounded like you guys were fighting. That's not cool."

"No, it's not. Fighting is wrong, especially in this house." She turned and gave Fang a disgustingly condescending smile. "Isn't that right?"

Fang could feel her smile gnawing on the back of his head, and he turned and spent no effort in restraining an annoyed sneer. "Fighting is only worth it when there's something to be gained by it."

"See?" she said, despite his overtly sarcastic tone. "And he and I would have nothing to gain by fighting."

Fang looked away. Her son scratched his head, still not convinced.

"Hey, boy," interrupted Zipp, "you go play cowboys and injuns or somethin'. And take this here badge with you. Uh—" He patted himself on his vest, stared on quizzically for a second, then looked down to study himself, as though something were out of place. "Where's my badge?"

"You got rid of it," Fang said. "You threw it in the sand on the way here."

"No I didn't, that'd just be stupid of me. Hell, I musta dropped it around here somewhere's. C'mon, son, help me find it." He gestured to the young one and the two of them disappeared into a nearby room.

Fang watched them go, before turning back to her. She returned the look.

"You didn't refer to him as their father."

Claudia waited a moment before answering. "He's not their father," she eventually told him, her sudden malice having disappeared. "I don't date moles. He's not even my husband."

Fang's brow furrowed, but he felt himself cooling down at that statement. "Why would you say he is?"

"If you were a single woman who lived around a hole like New Mettle, you'd understand." She shifted away from him and looked out the same window he'd been occupied with a moment earlier. "If I didn't claim to have a man here, somebody would have shown up sooner or later and eaten me up."

"You're right."

She looked over her shoulder at him with a surreptitious smirk.

Fang watched back, then looked away, the same feeling flooding through him—that feeling he'd gotten before when he caught himself looking at her and vice-versa. _Damn it, what the hell is the matter with me?_

Her grin lasting only a few seconds longer, she looked back out the window at the distant sun as its bottom tip just touched the top of a mountain far too the west, sparking the tip of the peak with a brilliant orange outline. The dissipating light illuminated the room in a warm haze. Fang looked at the floor.

"Not that he isn't a friend. I've known him for a while, and the kids look at him as a father. I guess he's the closest thing there is." She cupped her hands behind her back. "I suppose it's no problem if you rest here. He's not coming back any time soon, and I doubt you want to head into town after him. You're welcome to help yourself to anything in the fridge." She glanced at him. "Sorry I didn't tell you."

"You had no reason to. You didn't know he was the one I'm after."

"I know he's had problems with the law, but we like him around here anyway."

"Even after the things he's done? You do know the sort of crimes he's committed. He and his gang of misfits robbed a bank and some innocent people got in the way of the ensuing gunfire."

She was silent for a few seconds. "I know. I know he's responsible for that. But I can't bring myself to hate him for it. He's not a bad person."

"All the acquaintances of a friendly criminal think he's a terrific guy. That doesn't change the fact he orchestrated something terrible. He needs to be brought to justice."

"Maybe. Maybe not. What if he's repentant?"

Fang thought about that. Normally that wouldn't have mattered, but something about the way she said it kept him from replying. It was a strangely sickening feeling, knowing he was being challenged by her, yet he couldn't find it in himself to be angry over it. It was only her opinion, but though he'd have dismissed it had it come from the mouth of any other soul on the planet, he found himself listening. He wouldn't admit it, though.

"Everyone has their own sort of problems." Claudia wiped at a small stain on the window's glass. "There's no reason to go around painting them as villains for it, especially around here. A lot of people just try to get by. We should do what we can to help them."

Fang stared at the wall next to her.

"A lot of people in this world aren't worth helping," he said.

She turned to look at him, a bit of restraint in the gaze, for she did not agree. "How do you know? You only deal with the lowest forms of life on Earth all the time."

"I know how this world really operates. When you've been doing this for as long as I have, you see people for who they really are. Everyone is friendly because they're expected to be so." Fang's gaze centered on the broken remains of the picture on the floor. "Not one ounce of that friendliness is real. Nobody truly cares about strangers. People are uncaring and greedy, self-centered and pompous. They're only interested in themselves."

It took her a moment to consider a response to that. Fang looked up at her.

"And you aren't?" she eventually said. There was a faint sparkle of humor in her eye, as a patronizing tone made its way to her words. "Mr. Three-hundred-grand. The man who hunts down other men and has them locked away in a dark, lonely little place for the rest of their lives regardless of whether or not they're sorry for what they did. Isn't it justice enough that those people are sorry?"

"Your friend's remorse is irrelevant," he said bitterly. "Some men deserve far worse than prison for the things they've managed to pull, and no amount of jail time can serve the penalty that they should pay."

"Are you trying to tell me that death is justice?"

Fang's blank expression was all the acknowledgement she needed.

"And you're telling me you'll give it to them."

"If I have to."

"How many men have you killed?"

Fang paused to consider it.

"Enough to know how to do it well," he said.

The look on her face seemed to regress into something subtly appalled yet unsurprised.

"What the hell makes you think you have the right to do that?"

"If I hadn't done away with them, either someone else probably would have, or they'd have continued being little blemishes on society. No one will miss them."

"And yet you say you'll kill Claw." She folded her arms. "Do you still think nobody would miss him now that you've met my kids?"

"This is different from the others. He—"

"How? I don't remember hearing about anyone putting you in a position of justice. Who are you to say who can live and who should die? Just because somebody pisses you off, you kill them?"

"You _don't know—_" Fang started to seeth.

"You're not a lawman. You're a bounty hunter. You're a _middle man, _the guy who makes the deal happen. Nothing more. Acting like you _are _something more than that is a horrible thing. You step beyond your boundaries."

Fang started to answer, then stopped. He took four long steps toward her and closed every fraction of distance there was between them in doing so. She stood her ground, stalwart.

"When I'm hunting someone," he said in a tone that chilled her to her core, "I don't have time to philosophize like a goddamn college student pothead over the right and wrong of what I'm doing. All I can let myself know is, I'm after someone who's made the worst mistake of their life, and they might have the romantic notion that they can get away with it. Any acquaintances he might have no longer matter. Ethics no longer matter. Things like that are rudimentary compared to the gravity of what he's done. Your buddy screwed up when he thought the same and when he tried to put me in the deepest grave on this planet. That doesn't sound like remorse to me."

"Did you consider that maybe he did that because the people you go after have a tendency to end up dead?"

Fang glowered down at her. "They die because they're too dumb to know when to give up. They'd always rather try their luck with me, and that's what gets them killed. I can't help it if they want to risk their lives. I'm only doing my job. Now he's going to pay for it with the biggest price he can afford, just like every other twisted bastard who gives me _one good reason _to _end _them."

"You don't have the right," Claudia hissed poisonously, right back into his face. "You're _nobody_ to make that decision."

"I _am _somebody," he growled. "Do you know who I am? I am _Fang the Sniper. _There's no law in my job. Out there, I'm the judge, I'm the jury, and if it's necessary, then I won't hesitate to be the executioner, and that's the way it will always be whether you like it or not."

She stared at him, eyes biting at the bounty hunter with scorn. Fang just stared back.

Past him she stormed, towards the door Zipp and her son had disappeared into, then she stopped and whirled around.

"Did you ever stop to think," she said, suppressing incredible rancor while she spoke, "that maybe _you're _a blemish on society?"

She turned back around, and then she was gone.

Fang did not move for some time once she'd left. He watched the sun nestle itself further behind the mountain in the distance.

He turned and stared down at the wooden floor, at its old, rotting, termite-infested boards lined with brown and ash. They looked very much like how he felt.

For all his notoriety, his personification of cruel justice, for all the fear he instilled in the hearts of men who lurked in the shadows of society around the entire world, some were not afraid. He could not explain why, but he was well-aware that not all saw him as the great hand of violent authority he was said to be. Some were too stupid to realize the danger he posed, others knew but were simply unintimidated. Those same individuals believed him to be arrogant to the point of clumsiness.

Included in that clumsiness was gross negligence for the well-being of people.

Fang collapsed onto a worn chair situated by the window Claudia had been staring out, and dwelled upon those rumors.

He wouldn't deny their validity outright, but he was both humiliated and annoyed by the very recognition of them, the rumors he'd heard from time to time about how he was not, in fact, a man to be overestimated. He was easy to frustrate into carelessness. He was becoming less of a threat—every battle scar took its toll. His aim and speed with a gun, while still the stuff of legend, wasn't what it had been years ago. And the slowly-growing, yet hardest-hitting rumor was how heedless he was of the terrible things he did.

Fang thought about Dry Horn the Bison and the scorpion in the _Black Jack. _Had their deaths been necessary?

He thought of the gunmen he'd left laying in the streets of New Mettle. That town had become a veritable graveyard in the short time he'd been present, and countless men had died at his hand. What about them?

He thought of Sergeant Baker. Had he _really _needed that money to the point where he'd threaten a man in uniform over it?

_A blemish on society._

The vehemently-given words had cut deeply. As much as he hated to, he remembered what she'd said the first time he'd met her—that some people valued his presence. That he did good work. That it was nice to know people like him were around. And he had just changed her mind of all that in the span of a few terrible moments. Fang felt something inside his chest weaken.

He studied his boots, and saw ugly scrapes marked everywhere around the distressed brown leather. He only now noticed they'd begun to lose their color, a result of age, battle, and his negligence to oil and clean them every so often.

He glanced at the holster on his belt. It was just as empty as it had been when Sombrero had done away with his gun, a meatgrinder that had fed on men and lives. He had not answered her earlier question specifically because he could no longer remember how many men it had been. How many men who had conveniently been in a position to be killed, regardless of the circumstances.

He leaned back in the seat, and felt his whole body ache, most especially his legs and not just the bullet wound.

He looked at his rough leather gloves, at his reflection in their metal plates, and realized how tired he looked. Once those plates had been shining, clear, new. Now they were dull, scuffed, old. He looked nothing like the sharp, strong image his reputation carried.

He removed his hat and held it in his lap, looking down at it.

Was this worth three hundred grand?

The hat was tossed around lightly in his hands. For the first time in his life, Fang began to feel a little old.


	15. Under the Stars

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.

**Bounty Hunter  
By Rusty Dillingham**

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**--Chapter Fifteen – Under the Stars--**

"Oh my God. Ow."

For much of that night, Sombrero spent more effort than he'd ever accumulated in his entire life slithering his way out of that enormous, thick patch of cacti. It was a horrifying weave of prickly pear and saguaro, much more than the gila monster could believe really existed, but above anything else that crossed his mind, he no longer doubted the effectiveness of the plant's interesting defensive measures in the form of _two hundred thousand goddamn needles all over the fucking place._

"Ow," he said meekly, finally nearing the edge when it was damn near midnight. His body, covered head to toe in cactus needles, was tangled lopsidedly throughout a couple of branches of prickly pear as he took very careful, and very, _very _slow steps to get through it. He felt his arm nick one. "Ow." Then his leg bumped one. "Ow." His tail caught a few. "_Owwww—rrrrgh._"

A couple of Sand Hill sand-surfers stood near the edge, holding their sandboards under their arms and watching him the whole time.

"Ow. Ow... What the hell are you looking at!? Ow. This look like a fucking _show _to you!? Ow. _Ow. _Yeah, I really need an audience right now. That's fantastic. You want an autograph or something? Wait until I get out there, I'll give you a damn auto—" In his anger he neglected to be as careful as he'd been and his leg bumped hard into a patch. "OW!" He recoiled fiercely and jammed his side against a tuft of needles, eliciting an absolutely blood-curling: "_**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH--!!!**_"

"You, like, want some help or somethin', dude—"

Sombrero began tearing his way through the stuff, too mad to care about the pain. He already felt enough of it as it was, what was a little more? It quickly became apparent this was not the best course of action, and moments later he was awkwardly writhing in pain, standing, metaphorically, between a rock and a million sharp places. "_Ooowwww,_" he moaned pitifully as tears started welling in his eyes.

When he finally, _finally_ reached the very edge of the patch, it was a magnificent—or magnificently pitiful—spectacle. He did everything in his power to make it look like a hard-fought victory as he clamored slowly from the depths of the green cacti on his knees, panting, gasping for breath, cussing, and so on. "Yeah," he wheezed, looking like he'd just been through a war with the number of little cuts and scrapes on his green body. "Hell yeah. That's," pant, "that's how we do it in the bush. Oh yeah. I'm the _man. _Yeeeaaah."

He rolled over onto his back and laughed to himself happily. "Hoo! Haha_haaa! _Yesss. _Yessss. _Haaa."

_You know, _one of the sandsurfers thought, _you probably would have had an easier time getting outta there without that big, dumb-looking hat slowing you down._

"Ha," Sombrero wheezed again, "nothin' keeps me down. Rock you like a hurricane, baby. Oh yeah. Still alive. This was a triumph. I'm making a note here." He sat up and looked around for his airbike, still giggling like a retarded ten-year-old schoolgirl. He had to get out of here, but where was it? "Huge success." Pant. "It's hard to overstate my satisfaction."

Sombrero remembered seeing the thing come flying into the patch after him just before he'd lost consciousness. He looked deep into the patch again, and saw, far within the coiled, tangled innards of saguaro and prickly pear, his airbike. "Haha, ha--... _what._"

He disappointedly fell to his back again with a puff and lay spread-eagled in the sand, staring up at the stars and letting the tears flow. "D'ohhh..."

* * *

The sun had been long set by the time Fang awoke. He'd been so tired he'd drifted away into slumber shortly after Claudia had left the room, but he was not a particularly heavy sleeper, for a man in his profession who slept too heavily invited danger. He knew something was amiss when he felt funny—and realized it was his leg. It had been bandaged much better than before he'd fallen asleep. He must have been so exhausted that he hadn't realized someone—probably Claudia, he assumed—had tended to his wound. He wasn't sure if he liked that yet.

Light from the kitchen illuminated part of the den he sat in, and a glance outside confirmed the stillness of a desert night. Hot as he'd been, it could get winter cold in the desert during twilight, so cold a man would think he'd just set foot into the Ice Cap Zone, and some of that cool air found its way into the ranch home. Fang rubbed at his eyes with a pair of fingers, by no means rejuvenated.

He rose and stepped into the kitchen. Nobody else inhabited it.

It was a small section of a home that wasn't very large itself to begin with. The countertop was worn and bare. A nearby wooden table had seen better days, but everything looked well-kept for. Through a single-paned window he could see part of what could barely have been called a backyard, which contained a tiny, half-complete wooden fence and a small assortment of "outside" things—from the minimal light of the window he could make out a bicycle with a flat tire. He doubted it saw much use in an environment like this.

She had told him he was welcome to anything in the fridge, but for some reason, despite having eaten little for the past few days, he wasn't very hungry. Some water would have been nice instead. He searched her drawers for a cup and spent three minutes looking, eventually settling for a bowl when he couldn't find one. He tried the faucet, and there was only a trickle. Turning the handle all the way only helped marginally. _Should have expected that, in a place like this._

He drank, spilling some of the water on his chest, and didn't care enough to do anything about it. Boredly he stepped closer to the window and stared into the darkness.

The stars were low, as they always were here at night. Fang found himself taking in the vast, broad scope of the sky, a black blanket coated with crystals. When was the last time he'd actually given stars a good look? Probably when he'd been a kid. They were one of those things that utterly mesmerized you as a young one, then lost their fascinating appeal or romantic, otherworldly mystery when your life became too full of things formulaic for coming of age, like work and women and all the other hardships one faces as the years stack up. A fellow didn't see things like this in the city anyway, with all the lights. He often wasn't there, though so that was no excuse, but the fact that he was always busy filled that role.

But with nothing to do at the moment, and no city lights, he took a second to examine them. Was it sights like this that drove Claudia and others to live here despite the danger?

He sensed someone's presence at his side, a form teasing his peripheral vision. Fang's gaze traveled slowly to the source and he stared at it for a good number of seconds.

"Hi," said Bronson, one of Claudia's kids, after a few awkward moments. He was a small one, dressed in light clothes as many here did to deal with the heat, but looked capable for his age and size.

Fang turned away and refilled the bowl, regarding the boy with as much interest as he'd give a sack of broken bricks.

"We have some soda in the fridge."

Fang ignored him. Like he needed to be any more dehydrated than he already was. Kids.

"That water ain't that good. The pipes are rusting and we don't have anyone around here who can fix them. Smells like ass, don't it? You shouldn't drink too much of it."

No response. Refusing to open one's mouth was a good way to make other people leave you the hell alone, especially kids. Not talking to kids kept them from gaining too much interest in you or trying to ask you questions you had no viable interest in answering. Only by virtue of his silence had Fang managed to avoid obnoxious interrogations from children. He wanted to keep it that way.

Bronson stood where he was. He stared at the bounty hunter like a dog stares at something it's never seen before but doesn't have the sense to realize any danger that may be present.

"What happened to your gun?"

No answer.

"What about your leg?"

No answer.

"Where's your airbike?"

No answer.

"Why is your hat so dirty?"

No answer.

"Why do you only have four fingers?"

No answer.

"Are you tired?"

No answer.

"You look tired."

Fang glared at him.

"You kinda smell too."

Fang gave this due consideration.

He glanced down at his fur, noting it was sprinkled with sand, dirt, mud, blood, and so on. _I guess I haven't showered for a while. _Sand Hill had taken its toll on his appearance—and bodily odor, as it turned out. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Nah. No school tomorrow. Plus that coyote buddy of yours decided to use my bed even though I told him he couldn't. So I gotta sleep on the couch or somethin'."

Was there any way to tell someone to get lost in a nice manner when one was in as foul a mood as he was? Fang was too tired to think of one. "Well, buzz off anyway."

Bronson again remained in place. Fang sighed below his breath as the little goat worked up the courage to ask something, until asking in a tone that implied all the cordiality of a Sunday brunch:

"You ever killed anyone?"

Fang's brow lowered further. He glared ahead into space, wishing he'd kept his trap shut. What the hell was _wrong _with kids? Why were they so obsessed with death and murder? And war? What was so cool about any of it? He reasoned they were just mystified by the magnitude of such things, and they usually grew up learning of its realities anyway—either that or they turned into men like Juarez or Claw. He tried to not take any offense at the question, but it took him a while to answer anyway.

When he finally made up his mind, he said, "No one you probably know."

"How many?"

As much as these questionnaires got under his skin, he answered anyway. "I don't recall."

"Wow," was the reply.

"What do you mean, _wow?_" Fang glanced at the kid without turning his head, put off by the reaction. "Impressed?"

Bronson tucked his hands in his back pockets, still watching Fang carefully. "I guess. Why'd you kill 'em?"

"They needed killing."

"All of 'em?"

That one made Fang hesitate.

"Yes," he eventually said.

"Wow," was all Bronson could say.

Fang watched him, then looked back down at his bowl.

_Yeah, _he thought with a derisive snort. _Wow._

"You okay?" asked Bronson.

Fang puzzled over that, as if caught off-guard. When was the last time someone so small had asked about his well-being? Not that it had never occurred, but he wasn't used to such a question, and his discomfort showed. "I'm fine." The irony of saying this with a hole in his leg and blood and dirt and gashes all over his body did not miss his notice.

"A'right then." Off went the goat to find somewhere to sleep. "G'night."

Fang stared after him, then saw, in the reflection of a cabinet's glass, someone enter a doorway behind him.

"I wouldn't drink that water," Claudia told him.

Fang tossed the bowl into her sink with a louder crashing noise than was necessary. He turned to the opposite doorway Bronson had just exited through, feeling his irritation bubble. "You have a blanket I can borrow?"

She nodded to an adjacent room which Fang went into for a moment, before he returned with a quilt. He walked past her and headed towards the ranch's back door.

"And where exactly do you think you're going?" she asked, but he didn't answer. Fang headed out into the darkness, the sheer, bitter cold making his fur stand on end as he threw the quilt into the sand and started to curl up.

Claudia was at a loss for words. Fang the Sniper, in all his dogged, pathetic glory. She couldn't bring herself to feel anything for him but pity. "You have _got _to be kidding me," she finally said.

Fang ignored her. He tried holding it tighter against his body.

Claudia rolled her eyes. "You can't stay out here all night, you'll die of pneumonia before dawn breaks."

"I have no intention of sleeping in there. It's not my place to ask you if I can, either."

"But," she said, "you can't... you can't just sleep outside in the freezing cold."

"I've done it before."

Claudia folded her arms, unable to believe someone more set in his ways than Fang the Sniper existed. "You realize you're still on our property. You may as well get in here."

She expected him to get up and walk past her fence before setting the blanket down again, but instead Fang sat up and considered it. He glanced at her with a mildly annoyed look in his eye, then rose and headed back towards the door. She moved out of his way, aware he was galled.

"You're welcome for the repair work," she said, indicating his leg despite his back being turned to her. "I suppose it's too much for your ego to take if I ask for a favor in return. God forbid I ask for a _thank you._"

"I don't do favors."

"Don't go after Claw. Leave him alone."

Fang turned to give her a sour look. She still wanted to discuss this? He was getting a little tired of it already.

"Look," she began, "I wouldn't ask you if I didn't—"

"I didn't come all this way to go home empty-handed. I haven't been shot at so much so I could just up and leave right when I'm so close to getting him. So don't hold your breath."

"You're not close to getting him at all. There are a hundred gunfighters in New Mettle and he's sticking right there until he knows you're gone. I wouldn't expect him to split any sooner than that. Face it, bounty boy. Your fishing line just snapped."

"As if you would understand just what I'm capable of," he snarled contemptuously. "I've hunted people far more dangerous than your little four-eyed friend. Every once in a while some clown thinks he's gotten away, loves to believe he's finally out of reach. The looks on their faces when I show up thereafter is priceless. I'm sure his will be too, at least before I string him up and skin him alive."

Claudia's expression stiffened angrily. 'What is _wrong _with you?"

"I get the feeling you don't like the way I do things," Fang mused.

"You don't even know the story. You hate him and you don't even know him at all. He didn't even have anything to do with those deaths in that heist of his."

Fang's irritation gave way slightly to curiosity, though not enough to change his expression.

"Yes," she continued, "he robbed the bank. Yes, it was an extremely dumb thing to do. He's _not like that _anymo—"

"I don't care."

Claudia's exasperation began to break through. "It wasn't even him who shot those kids. It was that little freak lizard friend of his, the one with the sombrero. He's a maniac."

"And just how would you know that?"

She seemed hesitant to give him the answer. "Because," she said, "because I knew him—I do know him. He helped Claw rob the place, and he's just so messed up, he went ballistic. He's just a sick, crazy fool. I knew Claw's other friend too, a bison. He helped too, but I haven't seen him for a while."

_And you won't for a while longer, _thought Fang. "I see no reason to disassociate your buddy from what happened. He was in charge of what happened that day; the responsibility for what happened lies with him."

"But he's _sorry!_" she pleaded. "You've never even met him and you're going to make such a judgment about him?"

"I apologize for not being a knight-in-shining-armor," Fang growled, feeling his patience with her thin rapidly.

She looked at the floor and placed two fingers between her eyes, looking more tired with each passing second.

"I can't show generosity in my job," he said. "That would be _stupid. _That's what gets people who do what I do for a living dead and buried. I already told you, all I know is that I'm after someone who may think they can get away with what they've done, and I have to show them they can't."

That did it. Claudia's anger broiled past her desperation, and she looked ready to walk over and smack him. Fang wasn't sure how he suddenly felt when he realized the level of her vexation. But he could tell this discussion was about to get a lot less amiable.

"You," she hissed with a voice that seemed near as capable of killing something as Fang's, "you think you're such a macho tough guy. Mr. Professional. All about a wild sense of justice. Ice cold and cool-handed, always gets the job done no matter the cost." She was doing a better job of giving the words a bitterly humiliating flavor than he wanted to give her credit for, and it made him angry. "Well, you know what I think? I think you're nothing but a cruel, gutless vigilante-wannabe. You take the law into your own hands because you're too smug and full of yourself to put in the effort to do anything else."

"What," Fang spat back at her, "you think I'm going to go apply for a job at a goddamn _computer store!? _Do I _look _like someone who could have a normal job? Yes, I do this because it's the only thing I know how to do. It's the only thing I _want _to do!"

"Is that true?"

The question stopped Fang's mouth from blurting open before he bothered to consider an answer. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, gee, I don't know. Could it have anything to do with your current state? Have you looked in a mirror recently? You've got dirt all over you. There's blood all over your leg. I'm guessing you took a bullet to the arm recently. You look like you haven't slept in days. You're no closer to finishing your little _current mission—_" she was certain to say the words with a remarkably snide tone, "—than when you started. And, though I hesitate to tell you because unlike you _I_ have some semblance of a decent nature, I feel I should inform you that right now, you are in sore need of some deodorant. Is this _really _what you want in life? All you're doing right now is making life worse for everyone around you."

Fang huffed through his nostrils. "That's not what you said the other day when I was here. Seems you changed your mind awful quick."

"I didn't know you were such an _asshole,_" she growled through clenched teeth.

There was no immediate reply.

"Really?" she said, as if incredulous. "This is all you want? How many more men are you going to kill before it's all over?"

Fang felt something angry swell up inside of him. He ducked his head away and further under the brim of his hat to hide it. "Just because I kill someone doesn't automatically mean I was thrilled with the prospect. Get that through your head."

"I didn't say you enjoy it. I want to know how many more people are going to lose their lives just because they get in your way while you're doing your job. Really, if you have any respect for law and order, you should know what you're doing is terrible."

"I _know _it's terrible," he growled back at her, incensed at her continuous prodding into his personal life. He was unused to having it so explicitly studied with such a negative, critical eye. "I don't need _you _to tell me that. Your biggest exposure to killing is probably squashing a roach hanging around on your bathroom wall. You have no idea what goes through a man's mind when he takes a life. Taking even one could warp your thoughts until you die. I'm stronger than that."

"Oh, really." She was giving him that unimpressed, talking-to-a-fool look again, and it made Fang even madder than he already was. "So all you desire for the rest of your days is to kill and get a paycheck for doing it. You're nothing better than a common assassin. For all your bluster, you have about as much worth as a hired thug."

Fang turned back around and placed his hands on her sink's countertop. Everything she was saying was suddenly having a gnarling effect on him. _Damn it, stop it. Stop feeling like this. She doesn't understand._

"Well?"

"Well _what?_" he snapped.

"Is this all you want?"

Fang didn't answer, his eyes riveted on the countertop, seeking anything that wasn't her face.

"There has to be more than that," she pried, easing her voice. "Everyone wants something better for themselves."

An uncomfortable silence oozed from the bounty hunter as he stared down into her sink.

"There _has _to be. No one just goes into such a life willingly."

"Why don't you just mind your own damned business?" Fang seethed under his breath, feeling his way of life disrupted more than it ever had been.

"I think we're a little past the stranger stage by now." Claudia's arms folded across her torso. "You can drop the act, tough guy."

The fur on the back of Fang's neck bristled, his eyes flaring. Few people could speak to him like that without repercussion. But he couldn't so much as look at her right then. She wasn't someone Fang could draw on and so conveniently end. _Damnit._

"Calm down." She read him like a book. "Talk to me. You know how to do that."

Fang settled his nerves some, glancing halfway at her, but still refusing to discuss this kind of matter. The iron curtain remained in place.

"Why do you even do this? There has to be more to it than _it's my job. _Don't you have higher aspirations?"

There was no way out of this. Fang clenched and unclenched his fists, working up the nerve to say something.

"It doesn't matter," he said.

Claudia measured him carefully with a long look that scoured his rough frame. It was a sad sight. Something in him, blanketed by his perpetual state of bottled-up anger, seemed so despondent, so hopeless. It was as though the feelings radiated from him, like some kind of third-party that had attached itself to him and become a part of who he was.

"You don't understand." His voice was deep and ragged. "This is all I'll ever be able to do. You think I could just run off and do whatever I please? Well, I can't. I couldn't do anything else even if I tried. People see my name and that strikes their nerves like a shot to the gut. They know what I've done, and they're either afraid to be in my remote vicinity or they want to test their luck against me. Make a name for themselves." He thought of people like the Kangaroos. People who seemed intent on hurting the world they lived in for no reason. People who wanted to do anything to get ahead. Hated his very existence just because he was better—or supposedly better. Someday, someone would prove he wasn't better anymore, and suddenly that day didn't feel so far off to him.

He looked up at her, returning her thorough, careful look. "Sure, I want things. Trivial things. New TV, new guns. Nothing nicer. It can't be anything more," he spent a second to look for the proper term, "meaningful than that."

A quick glance was cast around at the interior of the kitchen. "Nothing like building a house. Making sure my offspring have a good home they can look back on with pride. Raising them to be right and doing what I can to make their community a better place for them to be. That's not the sort of thing I can do. I know there's more to life than a job, but, well. You get the idea. I can't do anything like that."

"Yes you can," she said. "You can help those around you. You just need to use better discretion."

"I can't use better discretion when half the people I meet try to kill me. I don't suppose _you've _ever had that kind of problem, toiling away here in the middle of nowhere."

"No," she considered, "I can't say I have. But does someone who only wants to be left alone in solitude for the rest of his life thinking about what he did deserve such treatment? Do so many people have to be killed just because they get in your way? That's _insane._"

"I'm doing what men have been doing for thousands of years. It's our natural instinct to kill. But I've not some primitive, uncultivated oaf. I've got control. I don't do it unless I need to. It's not easy, but I do it anyway. If I don't, I'm the one who dies. You start thinking about the rights and the wrongs of killing someone who's half a second from raising a gun to air out your skull, _that's _insane. Are you starting to understand how my life operates?"

Claudia shook her head. "You don't have to kill at all. You can get out of this."

"No, I can't. Don't you get it? Are you even listening to what I'm saying? What the hell would you know?"

"You don't even have to go back to that life if you don't want to. You could just stop—"

"And do _what!? _Live alone _in solitude _for the rest of my life? What the hell kind of life is that? A man only has so much time on this planet, he ought to do something with it. Make it at least worthwhile; try to be the best at something. I'm not a veritable hobo who's content to live in his parents' basement for eternity. I'll do what I can to get ahead, and if some fool tries to stop me, he'll pay for it."

Claudia's head dipped slightly as she stared at the floor, then closed her eyes. Fang could not take his eyes from her. She was working so hard to make him see things her way, and he almost felt bad for it.

"Please," she said quietly as she opened her eyes and struggled to salvage her argument. "Please just consider it some more. There's always a way out. You decide your own destiny. _No one else_ does that for you."

Then she stared at him quietly.

There was a small jump somewhere in Fang as he stared back. She genuinely must have felt he was worth something were she putting so much effort into this. He didn't know what to say. All he could do was gaze at her as she placed her hands behind the small of her back, waiting patiently for some kind of response. He couldn't find one for her. He was nearly speechless.

"I—"

"_FANG THE SNIPER!_"

Claudia nearly jumped at the voice. Fang tiredly faced the general front of the house. Now what?

A frightened Bronson rushed into the room, as if to say something, but didn't know what words should come.

"_Show yourself,_" boomed the voice from outside in the darkness. "_I know you hide in there._"

"Who," Claudia said warily, "who is it? He sounds familia—"

"What in thunderation is makin' all that racket?" blurted Zipp, who bumbled around a doorway into the kitchen, rubbing bags from his eyes. "Y'all must've been raised in a barn or somethin', I tell you. Out in _the west _when it's bedtime we don't go around bawlin' like a cow just got himself branded—"

"You shut up. Everyone stay calm." Fang took a few steps toward the kitchen doorway before feeling fingers grasp his arm. He turned to see they were Claudia's. "Get your hand off me."

"You can't go out there!" she breathed. "You don't even have a gun."

His eyes looked over her pleading face. "Would you prefer I invite him in for tea?" he asked in a mocking tone.

"Please. _Please, _it doesn't have to be like this. You don't have to do anything."

"So I should just shut myself in here like a coward and wait for him to go away. That would be a brilliant idea if he wasn't going to just pop up somewhere else later on and try to finish it then. I might as well get it over with."

"Listen to me, I know you're better than this—"

His callous voice cut her off and invited no room for argument. "You know what, I've had just about enough of your peace and love bullshit, woman. There's a man out there who wants to _kill me, _in case you haven't noticed. And what's to stop him from coming in here and slaughtering you all like a butcher once he's done with me?"

She was taken back by his sudden anger, but she stood there, staring at him harder and deeper than anyone he could remember.

"_GET OUT HERE!!_" raged the voice.

"Please," was all she said.

Fang's expression did not change as his silence and his blank, unmoving look told her all that needed to be said.

Claudia stared back at him, unable to say anything else. She seemed to understand, then resigned to closing her eyes again, as if to shut it all away and go somewhere else.

The adjacent coyote's head moved back and forth, from her and then to Fang and back again.

"Uh," he eventually chimed in, "I don't suppose you still have your hubby's piece around here anywhere's, d'you, Claud'?" Zipp rocked back and forth on his feet, taking in the amount of tension in the air, but offered it no outright regard. "Reckon it might, y'know, come in handy 'bout now. So we all don't die, or somethin'."

Her hesitation lasted. Finally she turned and took a few steps to a high cabinet on the opposite side of the kitchen, opened it, and uncovered a box from within. After a moment she returned to the bounty to hand him something.

Fang studied the semiautomatic. It looked like a large caliber, probably a .45, with a silver finish and brown wooden grips; it looked very much like his old gun, and it was the same ammunition type he preferred. It didn't seem like any sort of Saturday Night Special from what he could tell—Claw must have had some kind of attachment to it to keep it so maintained. He suspected he'd left it in Claudia's possession for instances such as this. But it felt light. Fang pulled the slide back to assure there was a round in the chamber ready to be fired. What he saw miffed him, for his eyes rose sharply and sorely at her, and he ejected the clip and examined the contents. "There aren't any rounds in this thing. The whole clip is empty."

"I," she stammered while glancing off to one side, a bit shamed by the mistake, "I didn't want anything to happen if the kids got their hands on it somehow."

A mother's discombobulated reasoning at its best. "You had it up so god damned high they'd have needed a cherry picker to reach it." He scrounged around inside the space where she'd gotten it, thankfully found a clip, inspected it, and jammed it into the gun. "I was about to go out there carrying a toothless shark."

Her embarrassment was obvious. "I—I forgot, I'm sorry."

Fang shook his head briefly, ignoring her dispirited expression before turning to the coyote. "I don't suppose I thanked you for your help earlier. Well," he pursed his lip a moment before saying, "thanks."

Zipp gave him an easy, stoic stare, then shrugged his shoulders in a long motion. "Buddy, if you gunned down all them sumbitches in town like you was bulletproof, and in case y'didn't notice _you did, _I think you can take whoever it is that wants your head on a stick. Don't be talkin' like you're dead the second you go out there."

Fang almost smiled. He examined the gun again, confident of its worth. Then he looked back to Claudia, and hated what he saw in her face. Misery, disappointment, and pain.

Fang could do little but apologize in his stare. She noticed, but did not respond.

Zipp moved Bronson and Fonda, who had been woken up by the yelling, out of the bounty hunter's way as Fang stepped through the door, slipping the .45 into his belt's holster.

The porch light came to life, illuminating the front yard of the ranch home. With a long whine the front door opened, and Fang the Sniper stepped into the cool night air, wooden floorboards moaning beneath his boots. The source of the vile shouting stood in the sand a short distance from the home, with a large black airbike further beyond, a desolate wasteland of cold air, desert and mountains the backdrop behind it. A stare of malicious intent was centered on the violet weasel-wolf.

"Fang the Sniper," said Juarez. The black-clad javelina looked no worse for wear after the day's events in town. Instead he looked even more ready for trouble, standing high in the darkness under the pale moon. A long shadow stretched behind him from the home's light. "Supposed you could get away with what you did, no? I am not someone to fool with, I hope you realize."

"I expect you're here to kill me for making you look like an ass in front of all your friends," said Fang. He stopped walking when he was at the edge of the porch. "You have remarkable intuition to know I was here."

"Saw you headed this direction out of town, I did." Juarez offered the barest hint of a pleasant smile. "No' hard to tell where you going."

"Clever boy. I'd have thought you'd know better than to try this after what I did to your noisy scorpion friend. Didn't you notice, or were you too busy trying to decide if alcohol tastes better on the way up than the way down?"

"Hondo?" Juarez contemplated it. "He was a casual amigo. No more. Allies come and go in this land, Fang the Sniper. Change hands and sides as often as money, they do. Too many pleasures, too many temptations. Hard for men to ignore. There will be others, eh?"

"Too bad they'll all meet the same fate as you. All you egocentric gunhands get a little bit dead sooner or later."

Juarez's impassive leer did not flinch. "Do not try to goad me into getting reckless, bounty hunter. Smarter than that I am. Caught off-guard I was." He shook his head. "You no' get lucky twice. A fool luck visits sometimes, but sits down with him it does not. A fitting... proverb, they call it, _sí?_"

Fang's hand dwelt a dreadfully small distance from the borrowed semiautomatic. Behind him the groaning of floor panels told him the others had come outside. He didn't bother looking over his shoulder at them.

Claudia watched Juarez cautiously. Zipp adjusted the red cowboy hat on his head, wondering what Fang had done with his only remaining six-shooter. Not that he was totally certain he'd have the courage to put it to use against a professional like Juarez, but he'd have felt safer with it, nonetheless. Bronson and Fonda stood by their mother, the former looking much less impressed with the notion of killing than he had before.

A subtle sneer appeared on Fang's visage while he and Juarez traded glowers. "You're going to make a fight over something so pitiful and irrelevant. Just take your hits like a man and be off with you. Go home and get back to your life or you'll win a one-way trip to that big tortilla factory in the sky."

"This _is _my life, Fang the Sniper. An interesting profit, killing is. Black, but curious. A shame we could not be _compadrés._ You seemed like a good man from what little I saw. A shame, it is. But you will fetch a good price, and I will enjoy what follows. Fang the Sniper met his match on this day under this sky."

Fang's frown intensified. Juarez was so sure of himself, and so pompous, and arrogant—and he was good at what he did. Fang knew the man had killed for the sake of killing. That was one of those things gunfighters went about doing in their daily lives, if they managed to come across a chance, and if they didn't find any reasons they'd make them. The killing made them better, faster, stronger, and most importantly, more notorious. He was, in all essence to Fang, a terrible man who wouldn't be missed by anyone but perhaps his parents, if that.

But still, for some reason, Fang could not bring himself to do it. It didn't feel right, after everything Claudia had said to him. He could see her face, her fine white features right behind him, staring at him, pleading against all hopelessness to not do what needed to be done, to find away around this.

Fang stepped off the porch, boots crunching the sand beneath him as he walked. Those behind him could do nothing but remain an audience. The javelina gunfighter, a hollowness in his eyes, stood very tall and still in the night, as if a statue. Fang stopped.

"If you so much as breathe on that gun, I'll kill you right now." Fang squinted. "But it doesn't have to be like this. Just ask yourself before you do anything if this is really worth it to you. I mean _really._"

He noticed the javelina was watching much more carefully than before, the smile having disappeared.

"And if it isn't," Fang continued, pausing momentarily, "then just go home."

Juarez's dark eyes dwelled on Fang, then, very slowly, they traveled to where Claudia and the others stood. The air around them all was almost completely silent in the open wild, with nothing but the small breeze stirring distant sands. He looked back at the bounty hunter.

_Don't do it, damn it. _Fang clenched his teeth beneath closed lips. _Don't do it. Not in front of them. Don't make me--_

Juarez went for his gun and Fang shot him.

It happened so fast the others weren't immediately certain of the result of the deafening bang until they saw Juarez drop his sidearm and crumple to his knees, a flabbergasted look of shocked pain on his visage. The javelina draped a hand over the red hole so precisely placed in the center of his chest as it bled profusely with a coppery smell. He looked up to see Fang holding the gun level at him. Then, with the kind of slow destruction of a catastrophe, he fell to his side and clung to the hole as tight as he could.

Claudia, Zipp, Bronson and Fonda made no movement as Fang returned the pistol to its holster. They all stood there under the porch light, watching a man die.

Fang waited. He did something he was unused to doing: he watched too.

For just a moment, Juarez seemed to want to reach for his fallen gun, but he didn't. His face strained in agony, the red circle around him growing larger with every passing second. He rested his head against the ground, swallowed once, stared at something the others couldn't see as if in sudden fear, and then was still.

Fang turned around to walk back toward the home. He stepped on the porch and headed past Zipp for the front door, glancing sideways at Claudia. She did not return the look.

* * *

Speedy the Kangaroo couldn't remember being so ticked off.

When a dry period of tedium had settled into the trio's journey, Shifty had wanted their map of Sand Hill; he'd begged and whined and moaned and spat and cussed and pleaded. God only knew why. It seemed to Speedy the poor little dimwit probably wanted to make himself feel valued—everyone felt the need to have some kind of important responsibility at some point in their lives. Speedy lamented that he'd been around for this such point when it had finally come around to hitting Shifty, because the next thing he knew Smiley had gotten sick of listening to it, given in, and now as a result of Shifty's mind-boggling inability to successfully handle the responsibilities of a goddamn map they were all lost and trying to figure out how off course they were.

He was angry at _everything. _He was angry at Smiley for giving in (however annoyed he'd been by it himself), angry at Shifty for being such an _idiot,_ angry at Fang the Sniper for no real reason that had anything to do with this, and angry at himself for ever agreeing to come along on this rapidly-worsening nightmare. He was starting to wish he could go home. He'd have confessed to any sin he'd ever committed if it meant he could go home tonight.

For some reason Shifty had brought along marshmallows. He'd stuck some on a stick and was roasting them over their camp's little fire while Speedy glared at him and Smiley struggled to find out where they were. It was hard to do so at night, so he'd probably have to wait until morning before being able to do a good inspection of their surroundings.

Speedy sat there, wishing he were dead. Suddenly, because apparently no one ever told Shifty you're not supposed to actually hold the stick inside the stupid fire, the marshmallow and then the stick came ablaze. "Shit_._" He started smashing it repeatedly into the sand next to Speedy, spraying sand and destroyed marshmallow onto him. Speedy burned silently, wondering if his nearby boss would take notice if he strangled Shifty while cussing and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Shifty tried again. Same result. "Shit!" Same swatting-into-sand motion. Speedy watched his legs get covered in a tasty combination of sand and black, much-hotter-than-it-looked marshmallow bits.

While the other kangaroo was retrieving more of the little puffs from a plastic bag (during which for some reason he dug and dug and dug around inside it even though there were a bunch right at the top), Speedy opened his mouth to say in a very polite tone, "Shifty, I guess I should inform you just so that you're aware, if you get _one more molecule _of that grimy crap on me, I _swear _to _God _in _heaven, _partner, I will take your life. Is that clear?"

"Sure, bud'." Shifty went about his business. Seconds later: "_Shit!_" Swatswatswatswat.

A still-flaming piece of the stupid crap flew at Speedy, except instead of his leg this batch landed in his eye. "_**AAHH—**_SONOFAWHORE—!!" Speedy bolted out of his seat like he'd just been shocked in the ass and slapped at the offending snack. Somehow he knew deep inside that was going to happen, yet he hadn't had the sense to get out of the damn way.

"Oops."

Speedy reached for his gun when finished, contemplating the interesting notion of using it on himself after dealing with Shifty.

"Ahoy, mateys." Smiley ambled up to the group far too jovially for anyone else's good, prompting the darkest kangaroo to cancel his motions. "Too dark to see anything 'round here. Gotta wait until morning 'til we can get our bearings. Thanks for that, Shift'."

"You're welcome."

"He's being sarcastic, you stupid—" Speedy's glare could have bore a hole through the dimwit with just a bit more effort; if only Shifty hadn't set his right eye on fire. "Do you even know how you sound when you talk? Your voice makes me feel like someone's pissing on my brain."

"It's just how I was brought up." Shifty almost looked hurt. "You don't like the way I talk?"

"It hurts my ears."

"But, that's just how my mom taught me—"

"Well, your mom must have been an _idiot!_"

"Easy there, partners," intervened Smiley. "And that's my aunty you're talkin' 'bout, Speed'. And I don't take kindly to anyone talking smack about my aunty, even if she is a damned sight retarded and tried to ravage civilization by birthing Shifty over there."

"_Yeah,_" said Shifty through a frown at Speedy, who silently thanked God he wasn't related to either of these morons.

Smiley moved closer to the blaze and held the map near it, already having reassumed ownership of the blamed thing, however badly Shifty hadn't wanted to give it up earlier. "I would imagine we're somewhere's around..." He tapped his index finger against a portion of land. "... here. And we just came outta _here,_" and he indicated the little hole-in-the-wall town they'd all passed through, "aaaaand, let's see. We know buddy Fang was headed north, as was the little prick he's after. And there ain't much up there but this right here." He tapped a higher spot on the map with an air of finality. New Mettle.

"Biggest spot on that thing." Speedy had only half-glanced at it, but it hadn't taken long to digest the contents. Sand Hill was pretty barren and devoid of much worth looking at, as far as maps went. "Could be any number of hiding places along that way, though. Stuff no one's bothered to chart. Places people don't want you to know about."

"That's the problem. From what I've seen, aside from the strange allure of that hill folks like to sandsurf and get themselves killed on, this place is just a backwater zone built to house all the sad sacks nobody wanted as a kid. God Himself only knows just how in the hell many little spots there may be from here to there." Then he paused. "That's interesting."

"What?"

"This." Smiley planted his finger against a very small spot south of New Mettle. "What do you suppose this is?"

"Hell if I know, I look like a goddamn cartographer? Someone spat tobacco there and called it a landmark."

"Could be worth investigating, wouldn't you think? We don't want to just run up into that town without exploring possible leads. Hell, we might even run into someone we know while we're there."

"Yeah, sure." Speedy stood up and trodded away. "'Cause we all know Fang the Sniper's just takin' his damn sweet merry time too. He'll be back in Station Square by the time we get to that craphole."

Smiley didn't answer, but his expression was devoid of his trademark smirk.

"Well," said Shifty, giving another shot at frying some puffs, "_I _think it's a good idea."

Speedy stopped to glare at him for the hundredth time that night. "And just why, pray tell, should I give a holy damn what you think?"

"'Cause the boss is the sauce, and the big cheese aims to please."

"I hate you."

"You hate _everyone,_" commented the boss.

"Sometimes I sure think so."

The cold night air didn't do much to cool down Speedy's head. He was so pissed off inside, he could have burned a hole in the ground if he didn't keep moving around so much. He stalked around the perimeter of their tiny camp to blow off some steam, since walking was one of the few things that could somehow eventually calm him down when he was ticked.

Smoking helped him think better than walking too. He took out a cig along with his lighter. Smiley had told him in days past that he wasn't allowed to light one up when they were out in the darkness, since any kind of light attracted potentially-unwanted attention, especially in this kind of environment, but then the fool goes and starts a fire? Because Shifty was cold? Speedy put the cig into the side of his mouth and torched it. The hell with Smiley. And fuck the asshole who'd invented maps!

He shook his head and tried to stay warm, and keep his brains from exploding out the top of his head. There was far too much opportunity to let one's mind wander out here in this desolate darkness. How had it even come to this?

He could still see their faces. Telling him they didn't need him anymore. Didn't have the money. Buddy boys like Fang the Sniper handling all the big trouble in little Station Square.

That guy who raped your sister? Already taken care of, Fang the Sniper caught him, don't you worry about it. Yeah, we know you wanted him bad, but we're gonna tell you a few cheer-up-about-it words wherein we pretend to give a shit. Anyway, city's decided to cut back on our funding. Here's your last paycheck, now give us your gun and your badge.

Without removing the cig from his mouth Speedy blew smoke from his nostrils, recalling it all far too clearly to not still get angry over it. That rat bastard's face was too easily readable as well. Puck had always been trouble, but no one else knew it until it was too late. South Island may have been more pristine than other locations in the world, but it had its share of losers too. Puck was the poster child for losers. Speedy had had never liked him, and never would. Every time he'd been called out to handle something involving Puck, the rat acted belligerent and dumb enough to make crack addicts look around and ask what the hell was wrong with this fool. One time Speedy had gotten sick of it and hauled him to the station for smacking a woman around, and that had left a definite mark on Puck, who made his intentions of revenge clear.

"You blue bitch," Puck had spewed in that punkass way he talked, despite being smaller, weaker and less imposing than ninety-nine percent of the world's police officer population, "you fucked with the wrong boy now. You think you so bad, hidin' behind that little oval on your chest. You know what? None of you pigs can wheel and deal like me. An' I'm gonna prove it. An' when that time comes you gonna be bleedin' on the floor. So you remember me."

"Yeah, whatever, tough guy."

"I don't think you heard me, mothufugga. You gonna die."

As if taking your stupidity out on the cop was going to make things all better. The words followed Speedy as his life on the force continued, and every time he thought of it, as well as his inability to do anything about the threats being made against him, he got mad.

A year later Sarah had been at a club in downtown Station Square where she met Puck, found something interesting beyond his dipshit dopehead appearance (Speedy had never understood what girls saw in "bad boy" types, especially ones as brainless and classless as Puck), and soon got more than she bargained for after waking up in a men's bathroom stall. After getting hauled in by Fang, Puck wasn't even been smug during his trial. He'd just been too stupid to realize the danger his way of freedom was in, but his thinks-he's-hot-stuff attorney got him off on some stupid technicality (Speedy _hated _it when criminals got away with blatant crimes thanks to court incompetence), and pretty soon Puck was back out on the streets, having no idea whose sister he'd boned. Speedy knew. And Speedy remembered him.

By the time Puck was walking fun-and-fancy-free, Speedy had been off the force for a while, but that hadn't made him complacent. He had a vendetta to salve, and it was going to start with Puck. He'd already hooked up with Smiley, who was well-aware of the hang-out spots of many quick "pick-me-up" bounty targets one might want to go after if they needed a quick buck. Puck happened to be one of them, since he was always wanted for _something. _Puck could sneeze and he'd somehow break the law doing it. It didn't take long for Smiley to smell the rage burning deep inside his new partner, and he opted to help him do something about it.

One night Smiley went into Dead-Drunk Dave's bar, and there was Puck, getting nice and liquored up and bragging about how much rock he'd stolen from some messed-up spaz down the street. Smiley dragged him out the back door, much to the rat's alarmed disdain, and into the alley they went. Yelling and growling he fought pitifully against Smiley's powerful grasp until the two of them stopped. Smiley turned the guy on his heels, and there in the darkness a few feet away from stood Speedy, hand at his side near a big, black gun.

It had taken Puck a few seconds to realize whose grey face it was under the brim of the black Stetson. At first he had tried to talk to Speedy like he was a brother just returning from a war. "Hey, 'G, holy shit. How you doin'? I like your hat, what're you, Buffalo Bill now, homeboy?"

From Speedy's other hand he'd thrown a belt to Puck. Latched to it was a holster that contained a pistol.

"Put that on," Speedy had told him. Puck's face degenerated into confusion. He glanced at Smiley, who'd just stood there and smiled at him. With little choice, Puck did as he was told.

"Do you remember a little conversation we had some time back?" Speedy had asked amiably.

"Brother, I can't remember what the hell I had for dinner yesterday."

"Let me give you a hint. You told me a while back to remember you. I do. You also gave a certain friend of mine a little put-me-down and did something to her that made me a little unhappy when I heard about it."

Puck had stood motionless, his anxiety seeping more into his expression with each passing word. He rapidly sobered.

"You told me I couldn't _wheel and deal _like you and that you were going to prove it. Now's your chance." Speedy had said no more.

The kind of bone-chilling feeling that curls up a man's spine as he looks death in the eye had seeped through the coke addict in a flash. Another glance to the amiable Smiley did nothing to quell his fear, but it was better than looking at the veritable reaper standing before him. He could have yelled for help, but they'd just kill him sooner.

Puck had moved his hand down near the gun, fingers shaking. Speedy did not flinch in the least. The rat's breathing grew heavy, tormented as his forehead broke out in a sweat. All the ghetto street smarts he'd learned over the years throughout his life did nothing to calm his nerves. Before he could even realize what he was doing, partially from his nerve-wracked panic, his hand had slapped against the pistol's grip.

Speedy had killed him effortlessly. Nobody screwed with him or his family and got away with it.

He remembered it all much too easily to not feel the wrath those days brought bubbling somewhere inside him, lingering, influencing the way he talked, the way he walked, the way he shot a man. God damn his bosses, damn Puck, and damn Fang the Sniper and all the other bounty hunters who'd caused him to degrade himself into doing this for a living.

Beyond all the death and lonely days, though, it wasn't that bad a gig. He still took a bite out of crime, and he didn't have to worry about court anymore. But he missed his uniform. He missed the comradery of actual officers, family men. People not like Smiley or Shifty. And, of course, you had bozos like Sonic the Hedgehog too, whose very presence brought crime in the area he happened to be in at any given point in time to a standstill. Speedy couldn't stand people like him (let the professionals do their work, he felt), but his hatred focused on higher priorities like Fang. He'd make them all hurt someday, especially that weasel-wolf-whatever he was. He stared down at the sand, cigarette near the end of its life.

He flicked it into the wastes and exhaled one more breath of smoke, trying to savor every instant of it. He sniffed loudly.

Then his eyes reached the stars, and he found himself staring at them for a moment. Near the fire he hadn't been able to get a good look, but away from its light as well as the other annoyances around it, he realized the heavens were an endless sea of black and silver.

_I guess they are kind of pretty out here._

Sarah had always liked looking at them with him when they'd been kids. She'd gotten a telescope for her birthday once, and even though it was some cheapo thing and it didn't work very well, she was excited to have it and had made him stay outside in the freezing cold with her for hours, just exploring the sky together. He remembered himself bitching all night about it, but she'd just smiled the whole time, and sometimes he'd smiled too, to let her know it was alright.

He missed her then more than he'd ever missed anything in his life, and wanted to go home even more.


End file.
